Trouble
by Bluesunkatsuri
Summary: Born into a civil war, thrown into a world war. Northern Ireland's youth seems to be full of misfortune and battle. But the real Troubles are only just beginning... *Part 2 of my Historical Hetalia series, sequel to Rising. Warning: violence, language, general angst and drama*
1. Chapter 1

**This is a sequel to my previous fic, Rising. I usually try to make it so that one can be read apart from the other, but so much happened in Rising, I strongly advise you to read that before you read Trouble. Just some advice.**

**And the human names I use for my two Irish OCs: Republic of Ireland - Cearul; Northern Ireland - Coineach**

**And of course: Wales - Dylan and Scotland - Allistair, but those are so commonly used I hardly feel I should list them.**

**Other than that, I do not have much to say about this story, not even on the first chapter... So yeah.**

**Here's my newest fanfic: Trouble**

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><p>It was September 29, 1938, early in the morning. In fact, it was a time when most people in Ireland would still be asleep. But Northern Ireland wasn't 'most people', and because he was not, neither was Ireland, much to the older nation's dismay.<p>

"So Arthur, Allistair and Dylan are in Germany by now?" Northern Ireland, a boy of seventeen years old but with the appearance of a five-year-old, asked his oldest brother as he sat beside him on his bed. Ireland grunted, burying his face in his pillow, wishing he could sleep again, if only for another hour. It was still dark out, and in September, that could only mean it was ridiculously early. He knew Northern Ireland wouldn't grow up as fast as a human, and that would mean he'd be a child at heart for a long time as well, but he had hoped the kid would at least develop a biological clock and sleep a bit longer. So far, his prayers hadn't been heard a single day yet.

"Yes," he mumbled into his pillow, not even caring if North could hear him or not. "Yes, they are. In fact, they arrived yesterday evening, most likely. But Coineach, please, I-" Northern Ireland didn't even let him finish, crawling onto his brother's back and sitting down just under his shoulders. He would keep his big brother awake no matter what, he seemed to have decided, and Ireland only sighed again. It was in the mornings that he was glad this child was raised mostly by his younger brothers in Great Britain, and in the afternoons that he missed him regularly. Now that his little brothers were going to a meeting in Munich, however, Northern Ireland was under his care for the week, and though he'd been looking forward to seeing him again, he loathed the mornings with all his heart.

"Why are they in Germany? And where in Germany are they? Do you know when they'll be back? Cearul?" The child's questions practically came streaming over his lips, and at this point, Ireland gave up the hope of being able to sleep again this morning and just answered his questions. "They are there to meet with Germany an' Prussia an' then some other nations -no, I do not know exactly which ones, but I guess France is there, too. Anyway, Germany broke some rules, an' they're going to discuss that with the lad. They'll be back by the end o'this week, I'm sure." He then realised he'd forgotten to answer one of the kid's questions, and quickly he answered it, before North would start nagging him about it again. "They're in Munich. That's in the South...East."

"South or East?"

"Both." Though he didn't quite understand, Northern Ireland was satisfied with the answer, and he layed down on his brother's back, hugging his shoulders, thanking him. Ireland only hummed, not nearly awake enough for all this. "Now you need to get out of bed," North mumbled eventually, earning another grunt from his brother. "You promised me you'd teach me how to use a bow today!" Ireland sighed, mumbling a soft, "I did, didn't I...?" Northern Ireland nodded excitedly, a huge smile on his face as he looked down at his brother. Then, Ireland turned around and to his side instead, and North slid off his back. The older Irishman then looked over his shoulder at the child, his gaze warm but hard. "Okay, I will. But Coineach, if ye want me t'be awake enough to teach ye, _please, _let me sleep for just another hour. _One hour._ And ye should rest up a bit, as well, or ye'll fall asleep again in the afternoon."

Northern Ireland pouted for a moment but didn't object. Silently, he nodded, then leaned over to Ireland and gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek before getting off the bed and leaving. Just before he left the room, though, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Maybe you shouldn't stay up all night and drink your scotch, then you'd get up earlier." There was a definite hint of a Welsh accent in his voice as the kid spoke, which made Ireland realise he was repeating something he'd heard Wales say to Scotland sometime. With a smile, the Irishman closed his eyes and heard the door to his bedroom being closed very softly. Oh, how he loved that kid...

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><p>In the afternoon that day, in Munich, the three brothers that made up Great Britain just entered the conference building. They were in a slight hurry, as the meeting was about to start and they only just arrived. And they weren't even in the conference room yet. "Ah, it'll be fine, Artie," Scotland said to his little brother, patting him on the shoulder. "They'll wait for us. An' we'll be what, two minutes late? No worries." England huffed and nodded. Scotland was right, after all. However, when they found the meeting wouldn't take place on the ground floor and they had to go up a flight of stairs, they stopped. "Well," Wales sighed after a moment of silence, grimacing a bit though also smiling as he stared at the stairs. "This is either the point where we give up hope of arriving in time, or the point where you abandon me. Your choice." Scotland shook his head, amused, while England only rolled his eyes. "Maybe we should have mentioned beforehand that we have a disabled man with us," he sighed. "Maybe they'd have been considerate enough to meet on the ground floor instead. Oh well, I guess we don't have a choice." Scotland nodded, already bending down and picking up Wales, who held on to his brother's shoulders tightly while England picked up his brother's wheelchair. Seventeen years ago, near the end of the Irish War of Independence, there had been an accident that had broken Wales' spine, and ever since then he'd been paralysed from the waist down. It had been so long since then, he was hardly bothered by it anymore, but moments like these were still a problem. Thank goodness he always had his brothers with him, and if not, he could get help from others if necessary. The rest of the world still didn't know about it, though, as the brothers hadn't spoken a word of it to another nation. Today would be the day most of Europe would find out, and because of that, the world would soon follow.<p>

"Well, at least we have a perfect excuse to be late," Wales said as his older brother carried him up the stairs. "I mean, they can't blame us. We can blame them, even." Scotland laughed, waiting for England at the top of the stairs to place the wheelchair beside him. When he did, he placed his little brother back into it, and together, the three nations went to the conference room together. England was the first to enter, immediately apologising, "I'm sorry for the slight delay, but I'm afraid we had a bit of trouble with the staircase." He wasn't even finished speaking when Wales rolled in behind him, followed by Scotland, and the moment England was done speaking, a shocked silence fell in the large room, all eyes on Wales. The Welshman just shrugged and went to his place, reaching to grab the chair that stood there and move it aside, but North Italy, wide-eyed, had already gotten to his feet and did it for him. "_Galle,_" he asked then as he went back to his own seat. "If it's okay to ask, how did... how did this happen? I don't think anyone else here knew about this, right...?"

Wales shook his head as his brothers sat down beside him, ready for the meeting now. "No, indeed, they didn't. I'll just explain it now for everyone to hear, and I want no questions anymore after that, alright?" Several nations nodded or mumbled an agreement to this, others remained silent and motionless as Wales began his explanation, "Seventeen years ago, during April 1921, there was an accident that broke my spine. Because there was another nation involved in it, the damage is permanent. Most likely, I'll be stuck in this for the rest of my life. Does that satisfy your curiosity?" Most of the nations now nodded and didn't say a word anymore. Only North Italy whispered in pure shock, "_Diciassette anni... questo è orribile_. I'm sorry to hear that, _Galle_." The mediterranean nation then got a poke in the side from his older twin, South Italy, and was silenced by him like that. Wales was glad the others had listened to his request and didn't say a word more. He didn't want to tell the whole story. He wouldn't say a word about what had happened that day, and most of all, he wouldn't say that it had been Ireland's finger on the trigger of the gun that had done this to him. In seventeen years, he hadn't doubted for a second that it had been an accident. Others, however, might not think the same way.

"Well zhen," France said, clearing his throat to get the attention of the other nations. "I take it we can start now?" From there on, the meeting was full under way. "Sudetenland is all ve vant," Germany stated. "There are many Germans living there, and they have the right to live in Germany vith their ethnic brothers and sisters. The easiest vay to do so is to annex Sudetenland."

"Like you annexed Austria?" England demanded, not pleased with the young nation's demands. "You broke the rules of the Treaty of Versailles by annexing your neighbouring country. And now you demand to annex a part of Czechoslovakia as well?" At this, Austria mentioned, "I did not mind the_ Anschluss _at all, I must say. The nations around me cared about it more than I did, apparently. I do not think of it as a problem at all."

"Of course we cared more, _idiota!_" South Italy answered angrily, glaring at the Austrian. "That potato bastard can't just break the rules set in Versailles like this!" His younger twin nodded, adding, "I have nothing against Germany, but annexing you was wrong. How can _you_, of all people, not see that?" Austria corssed his arms and shrugged, stating calmly, "Ve have the same views and our people live vell together. I really do not see the problem."

"Views?" Scotland demanded, glaring at the Austrian just like South Italy had done. "Oh, ye mean the way yer treatin' jews, hm? I hardly think that can be called a 'view' at this point." The nations then started arguing about that, several fights almost broke loose, and England sighed as he took it all in. This would be a long, long day.

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><p>"So, did ye like it?" Ireland asked Northern Ireland as they got back home in the evening. The child was a disaster with a bow, but then again, he was just starting. Nonetheless, Ireland had been praising him all day long. It made him happy to be praised, and when North was happy, so was Ireland. North jumped up and down in excitement for a moment. "It was great, it was so great! Thank you, Cearul!" He then jumped one last time, hugging his brother afterwards, wrapping his arms around Ireland's waist. The older Irishman smiled and picked the boy up, hugging him back. "I'm glad y'enjoyed it." He then sat down on the couch, North on his lap, still hugging his brother. "Ye know I love ye, right, lad?" Ireland asked him eventually, and the kid nodded, hugging him again. Ireland patted him on the head and mumbled, "Good. That's good. Because yer the most important person in the entire world to me, lil' brother."<p>

There it was again. Northern Ireland blinked as he wondered for the thousandth time how and why it sounded different when Ireland called him 'little brother' than when any of the others did. It had sounded different all his life, but only since last year did he begin to notice it. There was something in Ireland's voice that made it sound a little off, a bit weird. _Forced,_ he remembered suddenly. England had explained to him a few months ago that sometimes, when people spoke, it could sound 'forced', which meant they were saying something they actually didn't want to say deep down inside. Usually it was a lie they were telling, according to England. And England knew many, many things. _But why would it be a lie to call me little brother?_ he wondered in silence._ Or maybe this isn't 'forced lie' but 'forced don't-want-to-say'... But why?_ He sighed and pushed those questions away. It was ridiculous. Ireland was his big brother, and an amazing big brother at that. He loved him very much, and knew he was loved back.

And as they sat there like that, Ireland was completely calm inside. Holding Northern Ireland like this warmed his heart and soothed his soul every single time. No matter how annoying the child could be sometimes, no matter how much of a bother, in the end, Ireland didn't mind at all. He loved this child with all his heart, and he loved being with him. He truly cherished every second he spent with North. After all, most of the time he was on this island alone, none of his brothers here, and North would be in Great Britain as well. But even so, Northern Ireland was the world to him. He was, after all, his son.

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><p><strong>Well, I know it was a short first chapter, but it's just an introduction to the first, shall we say, 'arc' in this story.<strong>

**If you haven't read Rising and are now perhaps a little confused... please just take my earlier advice.**

**Well, anyway, thank you very much for reading this and please leave a review on your way out!**


	2. Chapter 2

**First of all, Crossfire, MiaCarpenter, littlemissxflydog and Shadow fairy princess, thank you all for the follows, favourites and review!**

**Second, a bit not-so-great news... after months of smooth writing, I've begun to enter a period of writer's block. I will try to fight it though, but I don't have inspiration for the emotional angsty things like Trouble right now... So I'm going to write a piece of my new favourite ship (which I just found a few days ago and am already in love with): PruIta. They're amazing together~~**

**So hopefully I'll be back to this soon. I've begun writing the third chapter already, but it started to feel like a film script. Too much dialogue, too little descriptive sentences... So that's going to be rewritten soon.**

**So yeah... sorry for that. But it won't be too long, I promise.**

**Now that we've got that aside, here's chapter 2 of Trouble!**

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><p>Wales and his brothers had returned to London a few days later, and he and Scotland would each go home soon as well. Ireland had just brought Northern Ireland as well, so the house was crowded enough. England had taken his oldest brother to his study to tell him about what had been discussed at the Munich Conference, and Scotland had gone out for a moment, wanting a bit of peace and quiet for a moment. North, usually the sole factor ruining said peace and quiet, had climbed onto Wales' lap and was asking him questions, also quite like usual. The conclusion the brothers had come up with during the conference wasn't 'like usual' at all, however, and all the while he was talking to little North, it lay in the back of Wales' mind, ready to come forward again and plague him like a cat stalking its prey in the shadows.<p>

"Did you meet many nations there?" Northern Ireland asked, and Wales nodded, telling him about seeing France, who was their overseas neighbour (he was still trying to teach him where all nations were, as the child knew only the locations of the British Isles), Germany and Prussia, who shared their former Empire and were almost their neighbours, as only Belgium and the Netherlands lay between them. "And they are siblings, right?" North piped up, staring up at Wales with wide eyes. "Germany and Prussia are brothers, and Belgium and Netherlands are brother and sister!" Wales nodded and patted him on the head, praising him a bit for that. He was learning, though maybe not as fast as Wales had hoped. But then again, even after nearly two thousand years on this planet, not even he knew every nation on Earth by heart, and there were plenty he'd never met before. "And how did it go? How was it to be there? Was the building nice? Does it look like here, or do the buildings look very different there?"

Wales laughed a bit at the many questions he suddenly got, and silenced the boy before he lost track of them. "It went rather well," he told him then, and North was immediately silent again and listened intently. He was an inquisitive little nation, and his curiosity would prove to be very useful one day. He was intelligent enough as well, so he would do fine as a nation once he was old enough, that was almost certain. "There were a few fights, but between enemy nations -or former enemies, I hope- that isn't such a strange thing. Allistair has told you about the Great War, right?" Northern Ireland nodded and recited the basics he knew about it. A great war on the European mainland a few years before he'd been born, from 1914 to 1919. It had been them, France and Russia against Germany -including Prussia there- and Austria-Hungary. Others joined in later. Wales praised him again. There was nothing wrong with his knowledge of recent history at least, though anything further back than the industrial revolution was still a bit hard for him. But he was young, so he had plenty of time to learn it all.

"And about the building, well," Wales went on, laughing again. "They didn't know about my legs yet, so there were stairs." North frowned. Who would be so stupid as to place stairs in a building when Wales would have to go there, too? They- oh. But Wales had said they hadn't known yet. Then it was okay, he thought. "Your legs don't work at all, do they?" he then asked, a bit quietly as he looked down. He'd been sitting on his big brother's lap for a little while now, but most likely, he remembered suddenly... "You don't even feel me sitting here, do you?" Wales shook his head and answered that, no, he didn't. But he'd learned to live with it just fine, so he didn't mind much. "There are some things I miss," he told his little brother. "And some things I regret not being able to do -like taking you hiking into the hills at my place when you're a bit older- but it is what it is. So don't you worry about me for a second, okay?"

North nodded, but he kept pouting a just the slightest bit. He never thought about it much, as he hadn't known Wales any other way than in a wheelchair, but whenever he did think about it, he recalled all the stories his brother told him about the time before the accident happened. And then he sometimes got a bit sad, just a bit, because he'd never seen his big brother walk or even stand like almost all other people. But then Wales would tell him it would probably be weird to see him walking around again, and he would have a very hard time even doing so anyway, as his muscles had gotten weak over the years. If ever he could walk again, it would take a lot of work. And, he once added in a whisper to the young nation, this way, North would grow taller than him real quick. That was a thought the child rather liked, and he smiled once more. He then hugged his brother, smiling wide as he knew that _this _was something he did feel.

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><p>"I don't trust it," England sighed to Ireland, closing his eyes. "I don't trust it at all. We've come to an agreement with them, but I doubt it will last." Ireland nodded, taking in what his brother was telling him. Indeed, the future for Europe didn't seem bright at the moment. England went on, "I understand them, I really do. I mean, since the Great Depression, the economy has simple been... well, you know. I do not think of Germany and Prussia as the wrongdoers here, it's their leader. He's the real problem. But what can we do? So short after the previous one, we really can't afford a new war." No, they couldn't, that was something Ireland knew very well. But this entire century, there hadn't been true peace in Europe at all. "No one wants a new war, Arthur," Ireland tried to reassure his little brother. "I'm sure everyone'll be careful enough to prevent it from happening again." But England shook his head, his expression grim as he muttered, "A war is coming, Cearul. I don't know when, but it will come. Soon."<p>

Ireland grabbed England's hand for a moment, silently looking him in the eyes, and after a moment of silence like that, the younger nation sighed and nodded. "Okay," he mumbled, understanding what his brother was trying to tell him without words. "Okay, I'll try to relax. But please understand the situation. It's getting dangerous." Ireland agreed, as it was true after all, but insisted his little brother had to take his mind off it for a while. Too much stress wasn't healthy for anyone. "And on that note," he said with a smirk. "It's probably good fer ye that Coineach's here fer a while. He's in the curious mood again, so prepare fer questions from sunrise to sunset." Something then flashed in his eyes, and he added, "Oh! An' I've been considering sending the lad to a school. Y'know, 't might be good fer him to grow up amongst his people. An' it will definitely help him develop his language skill and general knowledge. He barely speaks a word Gaelic..."

England only stared at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly. "You, Cearul," he said eventually. "Need to seriously reconsider your priorities." Ireland blinked at him in confusement, shrugged and stated, "I dun'see why. I'm worried 'bout a new war, of course, but even if it does happen, I'm not participating. Coineach has my priority here, as he should." It was silent for a moment, but then, England suddenly started laughing. Ireland only stared at him as though he'd gone crazy, wondering whether his little brother was alright or not. When he controlled himself again after a moment, England looked at his brother with shining emerald eyes. "You're amazing, Cearul," he told him with hints of laughter still in his voice. "I'm not sure which kind of amazing, but amazing nonetheless. Now let's go. Unless you want to have to spend the night here again, it's probably best if you left soon." Ireland had spend the night here together with North that day, waiting for their brothers to come home. He wasn't exactly planning to stay another one, indeed. The two nations both went to the livingroom again, where Ireland was almost immediately jumped by Northern Ireland.

"Do you have to go again, Cearul?" the child asked him, pouting, as he was lifted off the ground. He then wrapped his arms around his brother's neck and his legs around his midriff to get a better grip as to not fall, even though Ireland was holding him. The Irishman sighed and nodded, and North tried to glare at him. He couldn't quite look angry, but 'displeased' worked just fine, too. "I don't want you to go! Please, can't you stay one more night?" Something in Ireland's expression changed the moment the child said this, and though it was hardly visible, England still noticed it. He cursed inwardly, averting his gaze for a moment. He could understand how hard it was, but his brother should really try to change a few things. He'd requested Northern Ireland would be raised as their little brother, it had been his own choice not to claim the child as his own. If he wanted to be a brother, he should start making an effort of not thinking like a father anymore. But whenever Northern Ireland acted like this, it was almost as if even England could hear the tiny voice that was undoubtedly in the back of his brother's mind, practically screaming '_my son, my son, my son. Hands off, Brits, he's mine.'_ England had his doubts about North being his nephew, but Ireland definitely did not. Not anymore.

"Coineach, there isn't enough space in this house for the five of us," Ireland eventually told him, a bit disappointed himself. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go. But we'll talk again soon, okay, lad?" North nodded, though he didn't seem happy about it. Ireland smiled at him for a moment, saying softly, "Ye know I love ye, right?" The child nodded again, giving his brother another hug and then a kiss on the cheek, which Ireland returned before placing him on the ground again. "An' be nice for yer big brothers, alright? An' ye remember what we discussed this morning?"

"No waking my brothers tomorrow morning. They need their rest after traveling to Germany and back again," North recited quickly, earning a pat on the head from Ireland. "Very well, lad. Now, I'll be off. Take care, all o'ye, okay?" Wales and England said goodbye to him, too, and he then left, running into Scotland, who was just returning to England's house after his stroll, and said goodbye to him as well. Actually he could stay in London, he had no problem at all with sleeping on a couch, but he had to go home. There was some business he had to attend to the next day, as he'd received a letter while North had been staying with him. He hadn't told the child about it, nor any of his brothers, as it wasn't important to them. But to him... it was the funeral of one of the best friends he'd had over the past years. A mere human, some nations would think, but other than some, Ireland made a habit of having contact and friendships with his people. Most of the time, they were all he had since his independence.

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><p>"What I think was the worst part," England said later that evening in a conversation with his two older brothers. They were again talking about the threat of a war. "Is that Germany didn't seem to care one bit! I say both his leader and Prussia have been getting to him, he wasn't always like this." Scotland stared at him, not all pleased with this reasoning of his little brother, and demanded, "His leader, yes, but <em>Prussia?<em>" He immediately defended his friend, like he usually did when someone accused the Prussian of being evil. During the Great War, he'd seen proof that he wasn't. "There's nothing wrong with Gilbert, I've told ye before. He's... well, a bit misguided sometimes, but not a bad person." England shook his head and quietly agreed, though actually, he'd personally seen proof that Prussia _was_ cruel... and could even be considered evil. He'd been raised like that, being born for war, created by an army, but it wasn't an excuse. Silently, he glanced sidewards at his older brother. Austria had once been in the same position Wales was in now, after the War of Austrian Succession. It had been because of Prussia, and it _had not been an accident._ He'd seen it with his own two eyes. But if Scotland chose not to believe it, chose to see the good in the Prussian which was probably not even there, England couldn't change his mind.

Suddenly, Northern Ireland climbed onto Scotland's lap and stared up at him with big, curious eyes, and he asked softly, "Can I meet Prussia one day?" Almost simultaneously, Scotland and England answered the question, but both had their own different opinions on it. "What d'ye mean, 'no'?" Scotland demanded with a slight glare at his younger brother. "I keep tellin' ye, laddie, there's nothing wrong with Gilbert! We've been friends for _years, _an' if yer just worried he might do something to Coineach, let me just tell ye now: he just so happens to love children, 'specially after raising Germany by himself. He'd never so much as touch the lad." England was about to protest, but Scotland interrupted him by going on, "So if Coineach wants t'meet him, I'll take him to Germany to meet him an' Prussia! Or I'll invite them here, either one o'the two." Again, England was about to protest, this time interrupted by Wales, who, with a glare at both his brothers, said, "Would you two stop it? First of all, maybe you'd appreciate a third party in this to clear things up? It's fine for Coineach to meet other nations, but not with the current situation in Europe. No, Allistair, you're not going to Germany with him and the Germans aren't coming here until everything going on is solved. And no, Arthur, you can't seclude him forever! Just think about what that would do to his development as a nation. Second..." He sighed and calmed himself again, gesturing to Northern Ireland, who sat with his eyes closed his his hands covering his ears, trying to block out the angry voices of his brothers. The moment they both noticed this, guilt flashed in England and Scotland's eyes, and they were silent again.

"Hey, laddie," Scotland said softly to the young Irish nation after a little while, looking at him with a apologetic shimmer in his eyes. "I'm sorry for that, I just... I can get a bit cranky when people say things like these 'bout Prussia. We've been friends for twenty-four years already, and I haven't seen anythin' 'evil' about him." He then sighed and added more softly. "But I guess I get pissed off more quickly now 'cause... Well, I'm worried. Worried that he really _is_ the bad guy in this situation. I really hope not, but ye just never know. I'm angry because o'that, not ye an' also not Artie. Okay?" Slowly, Northern Ireland nodded and mumbled a soft 'okay'. In truth, he hadn't been startled at all, or thought that it had been his fault, but he'd found out quite some time ago already that little lies like these could make his brothers stop fighting. Lying was wrong, so he was constantly told, but tiny little lies like these did more right than wrong in his experience. So far, it had always worked. Suddenly the clock sounded, and North counted the times he heard it. Six, seven... eight. Darn, he knew what would come next. Scotland got up, still holding his little brother firmly so he couldn't get away, telling him, "Well, would ye look at that? It's time for ye to go to bed now, wee brother." The Scot then said a quick 'see you in a minute' to his younger brothers, taking Northern Ireland with him to the boy's room. North huffed, staring at his two other brothers over Scotland's shoulder, muttering softly, 'Goodnight..." Both Wales and England laughed, wishing him goodnight as well. Once upstairs, he was allowed to walk again, as he usually didn't try to escape anymore at this point. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then to his bedroom, undressed quickly and got into bed, Scotland sitting beside him for a moment.

"One day, Coineach," the Scot told him with a warm smile. "One day, ye'll meet every country in Europe, countries in Asia, the North-Americans, Australia and New Zealand, African Countries, South-Americans... Ye'll meet nearly every nation on this planet. Okay?" Northern Ireland nodded. He liked that idea, but it also overwhelmed him. How many countries where there? He remembered the names of some Asian countries, like Russia, who was also European for a part (he never quite understood how someone could be Asian and European, but he decided it didn't matter), and Japan, who was England's friend. Then there were China, England's former enemy in the 'Opium Wars', and Hong Kong, who was a bit like a distant cousin to him, according to his brothers. He was a colony of the British Empire, which meant he was under their rule, and so he was sort of related to North, but not by blood. He found it all a bit confusing, if he had to be honest. Australia and New Zealand _were_ his cousins, also by blood, though he'd never met them because they lived so far away. And the 'North-Americans' Scotland had mentioned were the United States of America (but everyone called him just 'America', so North had no idea why he had to learn his full name) and his twin brother Canada. He had talked to both of them over the phone once, but had never seen them in person yet.

And he would meet them all one day. He really, really liked that thought a lot. But then he yawned, and told himself to stop thinking or he wouldn't sleep at all. So, after softly telling his big brother goodnight, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, still not quite aware of what his brothers had been talking about all day. A new war? In Europe? Ridiculous... wars were history and history was not now. There wouldn't be a new war, never.

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><p><strong>Ah, childhood innocence... blissfully unaware of everything.<strong>

**As I said before, I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I'll make sure it won't be something like a month or anything like that! (personally I hate long waits like that... so I'm not doing that to my readers!)**

**Thanks for reading, and please leave a review on your way out!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well... Wow. That's all I can say. So many follows, favourites and reviews for the first two chapters alone?**

**I love you guys.**

**I managed to write the third chapter at last! And, with all the shit going on in my life right now, I think I'll have _plenty _of inspiration to write angst. I'd also still like to write a PruIta thing, though, so anyone's got a prompt or something for me? A PruIta request? Something cute and fluffy, please, to get my mind off things... (can also be other pairings, but I DON'T do USUK, as I see it as psychological-incest, and that's just sick. Same for Germancest, Itacest and all such things.)**

**Anyways, thank you all so much for the faves and follows and all other things! I seriously love you guys for that!**

**I don't own Hetalia**

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><p>Northern Ireland had been wrong. There had been the Austrian <em>Anschluss<em>, already in 1935 had the Italian Empire invaded Ethiopia, Japan had invaded China in 1937. Germany had taken over the Czechoslovakian region of Sudetenland and invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. At that moment, France and the United Kingdom had declared war on Germany due to an alliance with Poland. They had to help defend him at this point. Russia, or rather, the Soviet Union also joined the war. And a year after that, the three 'evildoers', as Northern Ireland viewed them, signed a treaty and started an alliance. After the Tripartite Act, Germany, Italy and Japan were now working together, and the war had become a second Great War. The Second World War had started.

Just before this Alliance, a battle that was called the Battle of Britain also began. The German Airforce was attacking Great Britain regularly, and Northern Ireland, who'd grown with the speed of a human child because of everything that had happened and was now seven physically, sure didn't go through all this like he'd gone through the Irish Civil War from '21 to '22 -mostly asleep. He felt the destruction, heard the bombs, saw the fear in his people. His brothers were worse off than he was, though, which perhaps hurt even more. He'd been told before by them to go to Ireland for now, as Ireland was neutral in the war and wasn't attacked as a result. But he'd refused to go.

Right now, Great Britain and Northern Ireland were in an emergency meeting, though not with humans. France and Netherlands, both of whom had been attacked by the Germans recently, were with them to give advice, amongst other things. The attack on France had been most recent, and quite similar to what was happening in Great Britain now. Netherlands had been invaded in May already, and brought to surrender in mere weeks. But both nations were covered in bruises, in their eyes the same weary sparkle. "If they say they're going to bomb a city," the Dutchman said, looking down as he spoke. "They're not lying. You should see Rotterdam, _verdomme_. With them around, no one's truly safe until you do as they say." England nodded slowly, his expression grim as he took in the information. France confirmed what Netherlands had told them by adding, "Zhey are brutal. I 'ave not seen Germany or Prussia, but I'm pretty sure zhey're not trying to persuade zheir boss to go easy on any of us." He scoffed, looking away then, his eyes burning with rage. "Zhey're enjoying zhis, I'm telling you."

"I don't think they're enjoying it," Netherlands then put in as he was rubbing a sore spot on his left wrist. Northern Ireland shifted to get a look at it from where he stood between Wales and Scotland, and his heart skipped a beat in shock when he saw a bruise at least the size of both his own hands. It wasn't even blue or purple, but just _black._ He quickly looked away again, listening to what the older nation had to say. "Our people aren't the only ones suffering. _Their _people are dying, too. I'm not trying to defend them, but I'm just saying..._ ergens begrijp ik het wel._" North bit the inside of his lip, annoyed that both France and Netherlands spoke entire sentences in their own languages, and that he couldn't understand a word of it that way. Suddenly, Scotland let out a hiss of pain beside him, gripping his side for a moment before taking a few deep breaths and apologising for the sudden interruption. He was fine again now. England, however, narrowed his eyes at this and brushed his hand against his brother's shirt -the spot Scotland had been gripping in pain a few seconds ago- and looked at his fingertips afterward, which were covered in blood. Shocked, North looked at the same spot wide-eyed, but he couldn't see the bloodstain at all. Then again, he told himself, the Scot was wearing black. Of course it was hardly visible.

"Go stop that bleeding first, Allistair," England sighed, not even looking at his brother as he spoke. "Then come back... or call us if there's another attack and you need help, for whatever reason. _Please._" Scotland smiled for a moment, though his pale blue eyes were shimmering with sadness as he wordlessly patted his little brother on the shoulder and went away to do just as he was told. North stared after him for a moment, then turned back to their visitors. France sighed, muttering something under his breath which North couldn't understand, while Netherlands was trying not to look at any of the British brothers at that moment. Northern Ireland then remembered he had younger siblings, Belgium and Luxembourg, and the both of them were still on the mainland. And they had been invaded along with their older brother. He must be worried about them, the child then realised, and seeing this set of brothers probably only made it worse. North looked at England for a moment, only to see his big brother was lost in thoughts for a moment, then he looked at Wales instead, who had his face hidding in his hands for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to Netherlands, patting the older nation on his arm, and when the tall man looked down at him, he softly said, "It'll be okay. I'm sure Belgium and Luxembourg are okay." Netherlands blinked at North in silence, unsure what to say. Eventually he just went with not saying anything and just ruffling the kid's hair, but North understood the gesture. It was the Dutchman's way of saying 'thank you', he figured.

When Scotland came back a few minutes later, England took a deep breath and explained to his brothers the plan he'd been thinking about. "Allistair, can we depend on you to defend your own land and Coineach's?" The older nation nodded without hesitation, and England then stated, "Good. I will defend mine and Dylan's, then."

"Excuse me?" Wales demanded, staring at his younger brother as if he were crazy. "You're going to defend _my _land, _my _people? What about _me_? I can take care of them just fine, as I've done for ages already!" England shook his head, still not even looking at Wales as he protested, "This is different, Dylan. You're taking Coineach and going to Cearul for the time being." As soon as the Englishman had said this, Scotland's eyes widened slightly in shock, and he quickly pulled Northern Ireland to his side, and France and Netherlands exchanged a glance, one message clear in their eyes: _this was going to be __**bad**__._ As North, too, sensed this, he hugged Scotland, pressing his face to his big brother's waist, ready to hide in case Wales and England would start fighting. Which they soon did.

"How's this different, Arthur?" Wales demanded angrily, glaring at his younger brother, who rolled his eyes at this, stating, "Oh, I don't know! Perhaps the fact that this time, you're too weak to even defend _yourself_, let alone your people?" Enraged, Wales folded his hands into fists, clenching them tightly as his eyes began to resemble flamethrowers. "You think I'm _WEAK?!_ How dare you? I have defended my homeland and my people all my life -_my entire two-thousand years of life_- and I can do so again, dammit!"

"No, you can't!" England shot back, raising his voice now, too, his emerald eyes filled with fire just like Wales' as he stared his older brother in the eyes. "Goddammit, Dylan, just use your bloody brain for _once_ in your life! _You're in a wheelchair._ If you cannot even wiggle a toe, how are you supposed to fight the Germans? You wouldn't even be able to flee if the city you're in gets bombed! What are you planning to do, take a rifle and roll into battle beside your soldiers? You cannot fight, Dylan. You cannot defend yourself like this. You're going to Ireland with Coineach and that's final." Wales gritted his teeth, taking a few deep breaths and exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm himself, but his hands were still folded into tight fists, his entire body was still tense. "Maybe that's exactly what needs to happen," he muttered under his breath, averting his gaze and turning it to the ground instead. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe I should just die..."

North couldn't believe what he was hearing, and he tightened his hold on Scotland's waist, biting his trembling lips. How could Wales even talk about dying like this? How could he? Scotland, though remaining silent, put one arm aroun North now, holding the child's shoulder reassuringly, but it didn't help the young nation feel any better at all. Tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, Northern Ireland continued listening.

"How can you even say that, Dylan...?" England asked, horrified, his voice barely above a whisper now. "You... you want to _die_?" Wales just shrugged and looked away again after briefly glancing at his younger brother. "Maybe it would be for the best," he stated flatly. "Then at least, a new Wales would be born sometime soon, one that's physically fine in every way. One that can actually defend its people when they need their nation. One that's actually _normal_, and not some weak, useless nuisance to everyone." Without hesitating for even a mere heartbeat, England had gone over to his older brother and bent over him, holding him in a firm embrace. "Oh, bugger off," he mumbled to Wales, who sat frozen with shock as his little brother hugged him like that. "Just fuck off with your stupid ideas, Dylan. You're not dying, not ever. Not if I can help it."

"In a war situation like this," Wales then replied, voice high-pitched with emotion as he spoke, hesitating to return the embrace. "I'm exactly that: a nuisance, useless, dead weight to you all. You'd all be so much better off without me!" Northern Ireland couldn't see Wales' face from his position, but he could see the older nation's fingers trembling, the tiny tremors soon going through his arms as well, and within seconds, he wrapped his arms around England, holding him tightly. From the corners of his eyes, the child saw France and Netherlands leave for a moment, as the two had obviously sensed this was a moment for the brothers alone, but he hardly registered any of it. Then, shortly after the two had left, Northern Ireland heard a muffled sob, and England whispering, "It's okay, brother... you could never be dead weight to us. Never." It took the young nation a moment to understand what was going on, but when he realised Wales was crying, his heart sank. He'd never seen any of his brothers cry, not once in the nineteen years he'd been alive. It simply broke his heart to listen to. "I just feel so _useless_," Wales choked out, his voice barely audible. "During the Great War, I hardly did a thing, and now that it's repeating itself, _I can't do a thing._ Arthur, I-I just want to defend my people. I want t-to defend you and Allistair a-and Coineach, but... but _what can I possibly do?_"

"You can go to Ireland," England whispered back, remaining strangely calm under all this. "You can take Coineach to a safe place and help develop battle strategies from there. You're not useless in any way, Dylan. You won't be... but you also won't be _here._ That's the only thing I ask. I don't want to lose my brother in this war, or any war after this." Wales didn't answer, just holding his little brother as tears kept on streaming down his cheeks. North let go of Scotland and tried to go over to him, but the Scot stopped him. "Not now, Coineach," he whispered to him. "In a moment, but not now." Northern Ireland nodded, understanding, and went back to stand beside him, holding his brother's hand as he waited for the moment he could go and comfort his other brother. And it was at that moment that he decided that, for the rest of his life, he hated the person who came up with the concept of 'war'. And with all his heart, he hated fighting. He would never fight his big brothers, or anyone. It only hurt.

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><p>Only a week later, both Wales and Northern Ireland were with their oldest brother. After many protests from the Welshman, Ireland had decided to take his little brothers to a forest for the day to get their minds off the war for a moment. So far it hadn't exactly worked for Wales yet, but North was happily bouncing through the trees and chasing squirrels. Just seeing this managed to cheer Wales up just a little, though, and he smiled as North ran up to him and told him about what great view there was up the hill before running back to it again. "Do ye need help t'get up there, lad?" Ireland asked as he walked beside the Welshman, pointing at the steep path. He'd planned not to go there, but Northern Ireland had found it and wouldn't get down until his brothers came up and saw the view, too. Wales nodded, thanking his brother, who just smiled as he went to stand behind the younger nation, helping him roll his chair up the path at the steepest bits. The moment they were nearly at the top and a breeze blew into his face, carying only the scents of forest, Wales felt at home again for just a moment. It was a shame that forests didn't have the same effect on Northern Ireland as they did on his four older siblings, who had all been born in one and immediately felt at peace again once they smelled fresh forest scents. Because the moment this happened, Wales was glad he'd agreed to come along, and for just a moment, he truly did forget the war.<p>

North had been right, though. The view from up here was stunning. The hill wasn't particularly high, but there weren't any trees growing on its top, so the trio was now overlooking the entire forest, the tree tops seemingly endless below them. "It's beautiful here," Wales sighed, finally truly happy about being here right now as he patted the young nation on the shoulder. "This is a great spot you picked, Coineach." Ireland nodded, smiling as well as he looked over the treetops. "It's one of the few forests I have left in comparison to what I used to have," he sighed. "But nonetheless, still a sight to behold. There may not be much left on our islands, but the Irish forests, the Scottish highlands, the Welsh hills and the English coast... they're all still wonderful, aren't they?" Wales didn't answer, and instead just took in the sight, the scents and the cool breeze. After a moment, Northern Ireland sat down at the edge of the hill's peak, Ireland just behind him to keep an eye on the child so he wouldn't run off again, and Wales turned around to gaze over the other side of the forest. Turning in the loose sand was hard, though, and it took him a moment to even get away from where he'd been sitting. When he was finally at the other side of the peak, one wheel slipped as the sand under it gave way, and with a yelp, he found himself plummeting down the hillside for a few seconds. He didn't fall far, but it sure gave him a shock. And not just him.

"Dylan!" Ireland called immediately, running over to his brother's side and helping him back up. "Are ye okay?" Wales nodded as his brother pulled him back to where the sand wasn't as loose, then went back to get the wheelchair. Northern Ireland knelt down beside his big brother, asking worriedly, "Are you hurt anywhere, Dylan?" Wales shook his head, though he had to admit, the scrape along his left thigh stung pretty bad. "I'm fine, kid, don't you worry. The sand's just a bit loose here, so I slip easily. Nothing bad, it happens more often." Ireland returned with the wheelchair now, and nodded at what Wales had said. "I know. That's why I originally planned not to go here, but... Ah well, it can't be helped at this point, can it? Here, lad, gimme yer hand." Carefully, he then pulled Wales up, helping him get back into his chair. Upon sitting down again, the Welshman let out a soft hiss, and his older brother questioned, "Ye sure yer not hurt at all?"

"Well, actually," Wales then confessed, pressing his fingertips softly to the scrape on his thigh, near the knee. "This one here-..." Suddenly he trailed off, his eyes widening at he pressed his fingers to it again, applying more pressure now, and he let out another hiss. "Cearul-!" he choked out, his voice barely audible as he now softly scratched it, sending a shiver down his spine as his nail slightly deepened the many tiny cuts. It hurt pretty bad, actually. Both Irish nations stared at him as though he were crazy, and when he tried to do this again, Ireland stopped him before he even had the chance. "What are ye doing, idiot? We need to clean that, not get it infected!"

"But Cearul, it -it_ hurts_!" Wales said, amazed, his lips twisting into a wide smile and his eyes beginning to twinkle. "It actually _hurts!_ Cearul, do you know what that means?" For a moment, Ireland still shot his little brother a confused glance, but then he realised the meaning of this, too. North beat him to it, however, exclaiming, "Your legs are beginning to work again!" Wales could only nod, choking out random sounds for a moment before he could speak again. "If I can feel this, that must mean my nerves are somehow restoring themselves, however slowly. A-and if they are... and I can begin to feel again..." He looked up at Ireland now, his mossy eyes shimmering with hope. "Maybe I can also learn to _walk again_!" Immediately, Northern Ireland began cheering for him, arms up in the air before jumping onto his lap and hugging him tightly. Ireland, too, couldn't surpress a smile wider than he had thought possible during a war like this. "That's... that's amazing," he said, not even sure what to think. Was it even posible to recover from this? Well, of course it was, humans had recovered from it, even, so why not a nation? But it would take a very long time and a lot of work from this point. "But Dylan," the Irishman went on, a bit more softly and with a worried shimmer in his eyes. "Please promise me ye won't be overdoin' it with this... don't try too hard, brother." His words were lost, however, as Wales didn't even seem to be listening anymore. He was hugging North back, eyes closed, the happiest expression Ireland had ever seen from him on his face, and the older nation decided to just let him be for the moment. It was a wonderful moment, after all, the brightest light in the darkest of times, and he didn't want to ruin it even the slightest bit. Let the joy last for as long as it could... his little brother deserved it.

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><p>Everywhere around him, there was the sound of destruction and despair. The ground under his feet seemed to quake every time a bomb fell, its explosion splitting the air and striking terror in his people's hearts. He wasn't afraid at this point, every ounce of fear he might've felt during the first bombings a month ago had faded to nothingness by now. His people were terrified, though, which still affected him. But the only things he felt now were a deep-rooted hatred toward the Germans, and pain, so much pain. It hurt so much, he was way past the point of feeling ashamed that he wasn't up in a plane as well, fighting the attackers. And any human who dared question his decision would understand after one glance at his chest, which was bruised black and blue after the many air raids on London. Honestly, it was a miracle he'd made it to a shelter before the pain became too much to even be able to walk.<p>

England was sitting in a corner of said shelter right now, knees pulled up to his aching chest as his heart felt like it was repeatedly being stabbed by a burning blade. Attacks much less dramatic than this one had left him screaming in agony before, but now he wasn't making a sound. There were people around him, his people. Women, children, few men. Most of these humans lived in the same neighbourhood he lived in, which of course meant they knew exactly who he was, and just the fact that he was in here and not out there was discouraging enough. He didn't want them to see their nation even whimpering, let alone screaming in pain. So for now, he just tried to breathe. Breathing alone was a challenge, as the pain was spreading to his lungs. As if his heart just couldn't contain all of it. But despite his efforts, he knew his people were aware of the agony he was in, and just maybe, that part hurt the most. Eventually, it was a little girl that walked up to him first, staring at him with big, brown eyes. "Sir," she said with a high-pitched voice, very carefully trying to draw his attention. "Are you okay, sir?" A woman then walked up to the both of them, gently pulling the girl away. "Leave him alone, sweetie."

"But mommy, he's in pain!" the girl protested, but her mother shook her head and pulled her daughter away from him, anyway. "I know," she said softly. "That's mr. England. I've told you about him, right? Now that the city's being attacked, of course he'd be in pain..." At that moment, the nation felt a certain, way too familiar stickiness around his heart, and he quickly brushed his fingertips against his chest. They were dripping with blood when he looked at them again after that. "...Bugger..." was all he could think or say at that moment, and actually, the little girl had the reaction he probably should've had himself. "Mommy, he's bleeding!" she told her mother, pointing at the nation. "He needs help!" The woman looked at England again, told her daughter to go to someone else and added she mustn't look, then went to the nation and knelt down in front of him. England didn't look up. He didn't even twitch. "England," the woman said softly, placing her hands on his shoulders, but he still didn't move or react. "England, please, let us help you for a moment." An elderly woman was already coming their way with bandages and some water, and finally, England gave in.

With a sigh, he slowly moved into a different position, knees away from his battered chest, and with some difficulty took off his shirt. Both women gasped in pure horror as the sight of the giant, dark bruise that seemed to be the size of his ribcage. And in the middle of it, crossing his heart, was a long, thin cut, blood oozing out of it. He remained mostly silent as the two humans tried to at least clean the cut as gently as they possibly could, then wrapped bandages around it. Only the softest whimper could occassionally make it over his lips. He felt ashamed, embarassed, but most of all he was angry, furious beyond belief. With every stab of pain in his heart, he knew another part of his capital was being destroyed and another few lives were ended prematurely. And it was that night that he made up his mind over how he was going to put an end to this war.

If necessary, he'd _swim_ to the mainland, no matter how terrified he still was of water, walk through a devestated Netherlands to Germany, and rip off their heads one by one with his bare hands. Germany's, his leader's and Prussia's. And he'd hang them on his wall as a war trophy. He would _never_ stand for the destruction of his home and his people like this. Never.

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><p><strong>Well, I hope it was historically correct. And of course, Wales... how could I let poor Dylan be paralysed his entire life?<strong>

**Everytime I try to imagine England's bruise, it's... gruesome. But that was the London Blitz.**

**Well, I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but I'll try not to make it too long from now (though school is killing me with the amount of tests and homework on top of everything going on at home, so...)**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hm... 3,_666_ words... this chapter must be evil somehow.**

**But it was rather easy to write, compared to earlier chapters, despite the still-present Writer's Block. And the 8 bloody tests this week.**

**Karano and Crossfire, once again, thank you so much for the reviews! And rafeind for the favourite!**

**This chapter is more Northern Ireland - Ireland centric, so no war-related angst in this one. Not much, at least.**

**Anyway, I hope you'll like it a bit.**

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><p>"Cearul," Northern Ireland began softly one morning a few months into the war. He and Wales were still with the oldest of the siblings, while England and Scotland were still defending the land. After a temporary break because of the many bombings, England had joined the battle again, too, once again in the navy. Neither of the two nations knew how to fly, so joining the Air Force was out of the question for the both of them. North had read a book on it, but hadn't understood much. But when Wales found out about it, he'd told his little brother he was far too young to fight, anyway, and this war would be over before he would be old enough. It wouldn't take a decade or more at this rate, after all, and a nation had never grown up <em>faster <em>than humans before. In fact, Northern Ireland might well be the first to grow up at human speed right now. So whatever happened, he didn't have to worry about joining the army anytime soon, so Wales and Ireland had taken the book from him for now.

Ireland only hummed in response, eyes trailing over the newspaper he was reading. "Cearul," North said again, looking away uncomfortably and fidgeting a little. He didn't want to ask this question, but it had been burning in his mind for a while now. "Why aren't you fighting, too? You're just as capable as Arthur and Allistair, right?" Ireland's eyes widened only the slightest, and he put down the newspaper, staring at the boy in silence for a moment. He then answered, "Well, I... Ye know I'm not part o'the United Kingdom, right?" North nodded, of course he knew that. Everyone knew _that_. "Well, that means I don't have to fight every battle _ye _all fight. I want my people t'stay out o'this war, we've fought enough this century." Northern Ireland nodded, but he narrowed his eyes at the answer. He found it selfish. His own people had been Ireland's until nearly two decades ago, _they_ had fought enough, too. Yet they were participating in this war. And the same went for his three other brothers and their people. "We're your little brothers," he huffed, not looking at Ireland. "You should protect us, right? Help us defend our homes and our people? Why aren't you?"

"But I am, Coineach," Ireland tried to explain. "Just not directly. If I joined the war, I would be too occupied with defendin' my own people and fightin' the enemy. Now my people and I are working 'behind the scenes': not officially, but we're helpin' ye. Understand?"

After a short moment, North nodded. Yes, he could understand that. He still didn't like it, though. Ireland didn't speak a word more of it after this, and instead turned to Wales, who was sitting close to them, staring intently at his feet, his expression one of pure concentration. The Irishman sighed and carefully told him, "Lad, just stop it. Be grateful yer gettin' yer sense back already, an' accept that motion will take a while yet." But Wales wouldn't listen. "I'm just trying to move a toe," he protested. "Just one little twitch would be enough. And it's not like it's a physically straining activity, Cearul, there's no harm in doing this for hours on end." Ireland sighed again, a little more exasperated this time, and he got up and walked over to the Welshman, grabbing his face and forcing him to look up at his older brother instead. "But it is _emotionally draining_," Ireland tried to reason. "Don't ye deny that, Dylan. Every second of failure hurts, right? Stop torturing yerself and accept things as they are: improving _graduadly_. Please?" The Welshman smiled, nodding as he promised he wouldn't overdo any of it, and then added he'd look through some files concerning the war. When Ireland offered to help, he laughed and called over his shoulder that it was all rather secret. He couldn't let any 'outsiders' so much as look at it. Then, with a glance at the silent Northern Ireland, he gestured to his older brother to follow him to the hallway for a moment.

"He isn't exactly pleased with you right now, is he?" Wales asked there, once they were sure they were out of earshot of the child. His words seemed to hit close to home in his brother, who sighed and let his shoulders hang. "Not really, no," he whispered, looking at North from the corners of his eyes. "I tried to explain to him why I'm not fighting alongside ye all -I think that's the only reason he's angry- but even though he say he understands, I don't think he does..." Wales nodded: that was just about what he thought, too. He bit the inside of his lip for a moment, thinking of a way to solve this, then said, "How about I go do my paperwork for today and you take him out into the city? Just go do something he likes, have some father-son quality time." A small smile then creeped onto Ireland's face, and his heart pounded wild at those simple words. Apart from himself, Wales was the only one to still believe North to be the Irishman's son instead of their little brother, or at least the only one to accept it. "I'll be fine by myself here," Wales went on, seeing slight doubt in his brother's eyes. "So really, just go. He's a kid: once he's having fun, he'll take his mind off things instantly." Ireland nodded, agreeing with the idea, then thanking his little brother before going to the livingroom again.

Spending the day alone with Northern Ireland would be perfect. His greatest wish was truly for North to know the truth and accept him as his father... and go with him. North was of Celtic blood like himself, and the only other one in the family to have grown up mostly without other influences was Scotland. England was the only one to truly be of mixed blood, being the son of Britannia and Rome, so Ireland sometimes doubted it was truly okay for Northern Ireland to spend so much time under his care. Wouldn't it somehow destroy the chances of him becoming truly Celtic? But then he'd tell himself there was nothing wrong with it at all: after all, North wasn't Celtic like his brothers, he was_ young._ He was supposed to fit into this age, which was becoming one of international affairs. He _had_ to grow up mixed, or he wouldn't be able to keep up with the world. Ireland himself had trouble doing so sometimes. All the choices they had made together had been right. Northern Ireland was exactly where he should be. Yet, no matter how much he kept telling himself this, Ireland couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, so very wrong, and the thoughts that plagued him..._ Northern Ireland is mine. I'll get him back one day._

With a deep breath, he went over to North and sat down beside him. The child didn't immediately react, only when Ireland put an arm around his shoulders did he look up.  
>"Would ye like to get out o'the house for today, lad?" he asked, smiling at him. "To just get away from here for an afternoon an' do some'in together -whatever you like." North blinked a few times without saying anything, then gave a short nod. "Sounds fun." Ireland grinned and got off the couch again, holding out his hand to North, who grabbed it without hesitation. Together, they went outside like that, discussing what they'd do. Ireland was just paying enough attention to listen to him and give responses, but his mind was with his fingertips, which were still curled around North's little hand. He enjoyed the soft touch, loved the warmth. And he knew at that moment, that any human that would look at them, would come to only one conclusion. A twenty-nine-year-old and a seven-year-old with such striking resemblance to eachother? What else could they be but parent and child? Unconsciously, he slightly tightened his hold on the boy's hand, feeling his chest tighten along with it. He'd made a great mistake nineteen years ago... and he would set it right one day. <em>Please don't ever let go, my son... just don't let go of me aymore.<em>

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><p>Northern Ireland noticed that something was off about his older brother as they were walking side by side, heading to a park. Despite it being winter, the weather was nice, so that's what North had decided to do. But there was something in Ireland's eyes every time the older nation looked at him. It was something sad, absolutely miserable and a deep longing. And Ireland was doing his best to hide it, the child could see that much, but he could still recognise the emotions in his brother's eyes. He didn't like his brother being sad about anything, but even less so did he like not knowing the reason. The only thing he could figure out, was that it had something to do with <em>him<em>. And it worried him. So when Ireland sat down on a bench and allowed North to wander off on his own for just a moment (though he wanted him to stay within sight), the child did so, but not all too happily. He sat down in the grass beside the water, staring at the reflection of the sky in it: milky and grey. It looked a little depressing, actually, and North soon got sick of looking at it. His mind wandered off to his home in Great Britain, his two big brothers fighting the war. Northern Ireland was spared most of the pain, but he still felt it sometimes. It was scary. What hurt the most was knowing that, if he felt _this_, Scotland and England were in agony. He was so worried for them, so scared. He hated the thought that most humans his age were signing up to fight in this war, while he was still too little. He was old enough, his body just didn't think so and stayed small. But then, when he'd complained about this, Ireland would tell him it took _him_ over two centuries to grow as big as North had done in less than two decades. The child couldn't really believe that. He knew his big brothers were all pretty old, with England and Wales at nearly two-thousand and Scotland and Ireland well past that already. Yet, they were all still young, in their early- to mid-twenties. Well, Ireland was perhaps thirty at most. So they had to have grown up slowly. But still, North couldn't really believe it. If only _he'd grow up faster_... he could help them.

Biting his lip, which was beginning to tremble violently, he got to his feet and ran back to Ireland. He practically jumped onto his lap, clinging to him and hiding his face against his big brother's chest. Immediately, Ireland put his arms around him, asking with a worried voice, "Coineach? What's wrong, lad?" North gritted his teeth, fighting back tears with all his might. He wouldn't cry. He would be strong, so strong, just like his big brothers. "It's not fair!" he mumbled. "Why are they at war?" Ireland's muscles got a little less tense at that, and he sighed. "Because what ye say's true: the world's just not fair like that, lad. I won't tell ye fairytales of peace and miracles, because it's not how the world works. _This is_, an' it is a cruel world. But it's also a beautiful world, lad. One day the sun will shine again. Just like the seasons, there are colder periods when the sun won't shine, but ye'll always know that one day, the warmth and light will return."

"Why aren't you helping?"

He then felt the older nation's fingers twitch on his back. It was a question Ireland obviously didn't like, but it was one that North wanted an answer to. "Coineach, I _am._ But my people an' I fought too hard for our freedom... I'm not forcing them into another battle now." Northern Ireland held his his breath for a moment, then whispered, "_My _people, too? _They were yours, right?_" For about a minute, Ireland didn't answer, but eventually he just gave a short nod. Of course Northern Ireland had heard the entire tale a thousand times, but this time, it triggered something in him._ That longing and sadness in him... _he suddenly realised, staring up at his brother with a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. _Does he want his people back?_ "Do you want me to be gone so they're yours again?" he asked, already convinced of this, as he failed to bite back the tears any longer. Ireland's eyes widened in pure shock at this, and he quickly said, "What? How can ye-? No! _No, Coineach_, never!" He put his arms around the child again, holding him tighter but gentle. "I'm actually not so fond of Northern Ireland," he said. "Or the Northern Irish. One of 'em once tried to kill me... But _you_, Coieach, ye are the things I love most on this entire planet. Ye are the best thing to have happened in my life, an' I'd never trade ye for _anythin'_. I love ye more than anythin', Coineach." North looked at him with narrowed eyes, not understanding any of it. His brother was talking nonsense. _He _was Northern Ireland, and Ireland had just said he didn't like him, then said he loved him? That's crazy, that's impossible. He tried to wriggle out of Ireland's embrace, but the older nation didn't seem willing to let go just yet. So when he could, North gave him a hard punch in the stomach without even thinking, and ran off when Ireland let go of him in pain. The older nation called after him, but North didn't even look back. He just didn't understand any of it anymore.

As he was running, he was aware of Ireland going after him. He didn't know _why _he was running, not exactly, but he sure didn't want to be with his big brother now. Or anyone, for that matter. First, he had to get his thoughts straight again, back into a state he _could_ understand. With every step he felt guilty, however, with every time Ireland called him he got angry with himself. He was running from his brother without a good reason, he'd _hurt _him without any reason at all. It was the first time he'd done anything like this, and he felt really bad. Yet, his feet didn't stop moving and the tears didn't stop welling up. When he thought he was out of sight for the older Irishman, he quickly ran to his right, hoping Ireland wouldn't know where he'd gone.

And indeed, he had no idea. He didn't know what had gotten into the boy all of a sudden, but just seeing him this angry, scared and confused hurt. The punch in his stomach had been hard, but he had hardly felt any of it, as the pain that wasn't physical was just that much stronger. He had find him now, because if _he_ was hurt, then North must be even worse. He had to find him, find out what was wrong, comfort him then take him home. Preferably but not necessarily in that order. "Coineach!" he called again, though he knew by now that he wouldn't get an answer. When he reached crossroads, he halted. At this point, he could only hope Northern Ireland hadn't gone too far yet, because then, searching for him would be near hopeless. But when he looked to his right, he saw the child standing beside a woman, who was talking to him. He didn't seem willing to answer, but didn't try to leave, either. Utterly relieved, Ireland ran over to him and called him again, hoping North wouldn't run away again now. But he only looked at Ireland wide-eyed, quickly glanced at the woman and back again. "See?" the woman said to him when Ireland was just within earshot. "Isn't that your papa?" North quickly shook his head and mumbled 'brother', which surprised the woman a bit. There was at least twenty years between the two nations, after all, so it seemed a bit weird to human eyes for them to be brothers.

Ireland actually wanted to grab the child and hold him in his arms the moment he'd reached him, but when Northern Ireland flinched, he simply knelt down instead and held out one hand to him instead. "Coineach, please," he said softly. "Ye can always tell me what's wrong, y'know... just talk to me." he then glanced up at the woman and thanked her. She just smiled and asked if there was anything she could do to help, but Ireland shook his head. everything was under control again now. She then left the two again, and only then did North look at the older nation again, though he still didn't speak. "Coineach, _please_," Ireland said again. "I'm beggin' ye, lad, just tell me what's wrong. How can I help if I don't know the problem?" Instead of talking, Northern Ireland just started crying, practically jumping Ireland and swinging his arms around the Irishman's neck, who held him tightly. "It's okay, lad. Really, it's okay," he whispered to the young nation, gently stroking his hairs as he held him. It wasn't until after five minutes or more that North controlled his breathing just enough to speak.

"I hate this!" he choked out. "I want this war to be over! I want to go to London, I want to go _home again!_" Though the words came as a dagger to Ireland's heart, he put every ounce of his own emotions aside now. "The war will be over," he tried to soothe him. "Not today, not tomorrow, but it won't last forever. England and Scotland will be fine, the land as well as our brothers, they've gone through so many wars before. They know how to take care of 'emselves. An' then ye'll go back to London, to Edinburgh an' Cardiff an' Belfast... everywhere again. An' by then, Dylan'll be able to walk again, for sure, an' the world will be that much brighter."

"I-I don't eve-even _want _Dylan to walk!" North protested with a trembling voice. "And I don't _want _t-the war to be over _someday,_ but _today_! I want everything to be like it used to be!" Ireland took a deep breath before answering this, mostly because he had to fight back any response that said North was being selfish for that. If anything, _that_ was exactly what would make the situation even worse. "I know change is hard," he said eventually. "An' the world can be cruel... an' everything can hurt. But change is natural, Coineach. Everything changes someday. And there is light at the end of every tunnel, lad. But until we've reached that light, I need ye to be strong, okay? Yer so strong already... An' I need ye to stay strong. Can ye do that for me, please?" Slowly, the child nodded, and Ireland picked him up, holding him gently as he made his way back home. "Thank ye, lad," he said softly. "I love ye, okay? No matter what." And just then, everything seemed to be alright to North.

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><p>Late that evening, however, he saw that is wasn't. Almost an hour after he'd gone to bed, Northern Ireland quietly went downstairs again. He couldn't sleep. When he'd almost walked into the livingroom, he saw Ireland and Wales sitting on the couch together, Wales' wheelchair set aside in a corner of the room for the time being. At first glance, nothing about it was off, but after a mere second, North noticed all sorts of things. Ireland, who had his head on his younger brother's shoulder, looked absolutely miserable. Wales didn't seem too happy, either, though he was in what North called 'comforting-mode'. "He said he wanted to go <em>home,<em>" Ireland sighed, and Northern Ireland could only just hear him from where he stood, now hiding there. "Home being...?" Wales inquired, not looking at his older brother, who sighed again. North didn't hear the answer, though he could read lips well enough to know his oldest brother was saying 'London.' This seemed to surprise Wales a bit, who then said, more to himself than anyone else, "Not even Belfast...? Wow. That's not even healthy." Wasn't it? Northern Ireland wasn't even sure about it.

"An' then, that human... she asked him, and I quote, 'isn't that your papa?'," Ireland went on, speaking so softly North could hardly hear him. He then closed his eyes and let his shoulders hang. "Is it wrong of me to wish he'd have said _'yes'_?" Northern Ireland's eyes widened in shock. Why would Ireland want _that?_ Because it was easier to explain to humans than the truth? No, that couldn't be it... Wales didn't react for a moment, but then shook his head. "Not really. Not in my book, at least. So long as you don't say a word of it to him..." Ireland nodded slowly, but said, "I know, but... Sometimes, Dylan, it's just _so hard_. Sometimes I wonder if this was really the right choice." What were they talking about? Northern Ireland didn't understand a word of it. But he didn't want to hear a word more of it now, as it only rasied questions in his mind he didn't dare say out loud. So as quietly as he could, he went back upstairs and got into his bed again, closing his eyes. He tried so hard, but Ireland's words were stuck in his mind. It didn't make sense... He didn't know why Ireland would have said that.

The only thing he knew for sure that night, was that he didn't sleep a wink.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading, and please leave a review on your way out!<strong>

**Oh, and as Crossfire pointed out in a review... I know it seems I have made a final decision on wheter North is brother or son, but... Really, I'm not _definitely_ going either way in this fic. Everyone has their own opinions on it, both within the story and outside it, and since there isn't any proof for either theory, nothing is definite. But Ireland and Wales really _do_ believe North couldn't possibly be their little brother, so, since this chapter was mostly their perspective on the matter...**

**Anyway, I'm (mostly) leaving it up to the readers to decide for themselves.**

**(And the next chapter might take a little longer again... just sayin')**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, I finally got another chapter ready!**

**Crossfire and Karano, thanks for the lovely reviews! And Kawaz, thank you for the follow! So how did your olympiad go, Karano? Got any results already? (just curious)**

**This chapter was once again proof that my writing isn't completely back yet... as I didn't want to rewrite the whole thing, I've just gone over it twice and corrected some things, but... It might still seem rushed here and there, despite the length. Sorry for that.**

**Well, I don't really have anything else to say, so here you go: chapter 5 of Trouble.**

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><p>It wasn't until spring 1941 that Northern Ireland saw his big brothers again. He would've liked to go to London again, but England had insisted they stay away from there. He didn't want them to see the chaos, despair and destruction. And truly, there was no place left for them to meet there. England's own house in London had been blown to smithereens along with so many others. So for now, when he wasn't away with the navy like he had been over the past few months, he lived in his house up north, near the border with Scotland. That was also where the brothers were meeting now. It was a bit small for the entire family to stay, though. While England's house in London had been big enough to accomodate four of them (he'd had it for well over a century before North had been born), the one here was truly one he used to get away from everything, like Ireland with his place in Ballinhassig and Wales with his cottage up in the hills. Only Scotland hadn't gotten himself a get-away like that, with a house in two cities -the capital and another major one.<p>

Northern Ireland didn't mind it being crowded one bit. There were two beds in the house, so someone could stay here with him for the few days he was home. And of course, that someone would be Northern Ireland, he'd make sure of that. However, just seeing England and Scotland again wasn't the only thing North was excited about. This would be the second time he'd meet another nation not from his direct family. Canada was here, which was probably the only reason England was allowed to leave the war for a week, to discuss tactics with him.

"Arthur!" North called the moment he saw his big brother again, running over to him with a wide smile and jumping into the arms the Englishman had spread welcomingly, ready to hug his little brother again. "I missed you so much, Arthur!" The young nation said, snuggling against the Englishman's shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around him. "I missed you too, kid," England said, hugging the child a moment longer before placing him back onto the ground. Northern Ireland's smile seemed to grow even bigger at that, then he ran over to Scotland and repeated the process, allowing England to greet his two older brothers as well. "Good to see you both again," he said flatly, and it was obvious from his voice then that he was utterly exhausted, something he masked when talking to North. "It's unbelievable, isn't it? The worst battle in history... repeating itself." He then sighed and shook his head, turning to Wales, his eyes just a little bit brighter again. "And? Can you feel everything again?" Of course he'd heard the good news, and he was relieved that at least something was going right in this dark time.

Wales shook his head, though he was smiling wide, and explained, "It still feels like there's, I don't know, a large pillow or something wrapped around my legs. I do feel things, but it's... a bit dull, muffled. But it's improving." England nodded with a tiny smile, looking over his shoulder at Northern Ireland, who had just let go of Scotland and was now cautiously walking over to Canada, a little bit nervous. But when the Canadian smiled at him and said a soft greeting, the child seemed a bit more reassured and stood in front of the teen, looking up at him.

"You're Canada, right?" he asked, his pale green eyes wide. Canada gave a short nod and North said nervously, "N-nice to meet you, then. I'm Northern Ireland... Coineach." The older nation then knelt down in front of him so their eyes were at the same level, also introducing himself. "I'm Matthew. Though you'll hear France calling me Mathieu, so don't be too confused by that. I'm a bilingual nation, you see."

"So am I!" North piped up, eyes twinkling with joy. "Or, well, I'm supposed to be. But Gaelic is _hard._" Canada laughed for a moment, though his voice sounded a bit flat, and North tilted his head, inspecting the older nation carefully. "You look different than what I imagined," he mused eventually. "I though your hair would be shorter... and didn't think you had glasses..." The Canadian then ruffled the kid's hair a bit, answering, "Well, you're not all what I imagined you to be, either! Since you're born a member to the UK, I thought you'd look more like Arthur and less, well, _identical_ to Cearul. But then again, you're still Irish territory even if you're United Kingdom, so that's not surprising." With a last, warm smile, he added, "You do have the same green eyes, though. Just a tad lighter, which is exactly as I envisioned." Having said that, he got to his feet again and walked over to England, said a quick greeting to the others and already started discussing things. England quickly silenced him again, though. "Not yet, Matthew," he said, sighing. "Please. It's already getting late, we should just have dinner and-" With a slight grimace, he looked at the five other nations. There were six of them, and -couch included- only three places to sleep. "Well, I suppose..." he mumbled eventually, more to himself than anyone else as he was thinking of what to do now. "I suppose I have two spare matrasses down in the cellar. Plenty of blankets, sheets and such as well... For one night we can make it like that, right? And North can sleep with someone else."

"Sure, no problem," Ireland agreed, nodding once. Then, with a smirk, he added, "So long as _you_ take an actual bed, I'm fine with it. Lad, you look as if you could fall asleep any moment now, you need a proper bed to collapse on." England only smiled, but remained silent. Canada then offered to make a bunch of pancakes for dinner ("they're done quickly, so we can eat in time!") and Ireland, Scotland and North were busy getting the livingroom ready to serve as a bedroom for the night. It left England and Wales alone for a moment with nothing to do, and quietly, Wales grabbed his little brother's hand, rolling over to another room in silence, pulling England along with him. He, too, said nothing and silently let himself be pulled along by his brother. Once inside that room, Wales turned around, closed the door then faced England, looking up at him. He really didn't look good: skin pale as a corpse, dark lines under his eyes as though it were make-up. His emerald eyes were dull, the usual light nowhere to be found. Only a weary, tired look in them remained, seemingly piercing Wales' heart like a dagger. Biting the inside of his lip for a second, he held out both arms to his little brother, staring him in the eyes. Only when England didn't react to it, he insisted, "Come on, Artie. Just come here." Slowly, a bit absent-mindedly (which worried Wales even more, as this was a clear sign he was truly _exhausted_), England leaned forward and put his arms around his older brother. His body was tense, Wales noticed immediately, and he then realised that's what his little brother had been like for months now: constantly tense, constantly stressing and exhausted and weary. He surpressed a sigh and mumbled softly, "Oh, just sit down already, moron, so I can give you a proper hug. You obviously need one right now, and this awkward position isn't helping." England laughed soflty, letting go again. It was indeed not the best position, having to lean over his brother's legs or holding him sideways, but it had been the only real possibility they'd had for two decades. He looked down at Wales with an expression that clearly asked 'really now?', but Wales just kept staring at him until he gave in. With an amused sigh, he carefully sat down on Wales' lap (only able to wonder what the hell he was doing), immediately being pulled back into a tight embrace. When the initial awkwardness faded, he had to admit, it was quite comfortable. Still, it was also -and mostly- ridiculous. "Dylan," he sighed, closing his eyes. "At the moment, I'm a high-ranking officer in the navy. This is just crazy."

"No, Arthur, right now," Wales answered calmly, not letting go. "Right now you're just my little brother. My little brother who's gone through Hell and back again the past few months, and is in dire need of some warmth and comfort and rest, even if he won't admit it." With a tiny smile playing at his lips, England turned around and put his arms around Wales, fully returning the embrace, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. He wouldn't admit it, not with words, but this was indeed exactly what he needed right now.

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><p>"I really liked your pancakes," North said to Canada as he was changing into his pajamas in the livingroom. The Canadian smiled and thanked him quietly, already sitting on one of the spare matrasses on the ground. They had decided the ones that deserved a bed most were England and Scotland, Canada and Ireland would sleep on the ground and Wales would take the couch. He had to be able to get into his wheelchair again the next morning, after all, and he didn't appreciate needing help with that, so sleeping on the floor was out of the question for him. North then said goodnight to Canada and his brothers, and went upstairs. He could choose with whom he wanted to sleep for tonight, and he'd made his decision the moment he heard he could pick: of course it would be England. When he got to his bedroom, he spotted the Englishman sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning up a shirt to sleep in. When he saw North enter the room in the corners of his eyes, he worked just a little bit faster, but the child still spotted a long scar on his chest and traces of bruises around it. "Arthur?" was all he could get over his lips, staring at his brother with worry in his pale eyes. The older nation simply smiled a bit, looking at his little brother with a calm expression. "Those are just old wounds, Coineach," he tried to reassure him casually. "Nothing to worry about." Northern Ireland nodded silently and sat down beside England when the older nation invited him to do so, but he remained worried. 'Nothing to worry about' wasn't exactly the right description, the way he saw it. But if that's what England said, he believed it.<p>

"Well, have you had any fun during your time with Cearul?" England asked when he and North lay under the covers. The young nation nodded, and told about the beautiful forest they went to -twice, even. Aside from that, he'd spent the months reading some good books, learning more Gaelic, helping his brothers with governmental work and all such things. He learned a lot, but aside from several special occassions, he never truly had fun. He worried too much about his two other big brothers, and if he didn't worry, he simply missed them. England sighed and ruffled his hair affectionately. "I missed you too, kid. But you don't have to worry about me and Allistair: we've gone through this many times before. Okay? We'll be fine." Northern Ireland nodded, then wriggled closer to his brother, snuggling up to him. Well-meant as the motion was, England couldn't surpress a soft hiss of pain when his little brother brushed against the bruises. They were old, yes, but so long as the destruction in London wasn't fixed, he doubted it would truly heal, hence them having stayed there for months already. North flinched away from him immediately, and in the darkness, two pale emerald eyes stared up at England again, slightly teary. _Oh, please,_ the nation thought, biting his lip. _Don't you go crying now... It wasn't your fault._ "Does that hurt a lot, Arthur?" the child whispered and with a sigh, England nodded, deciding it would be pointless to lie now. Immediately, Northern Ireland got out of the bed again, placing his small hand on England's shoulder for a moment. "I'll go to Allistair, then. You need to sleep well." He whispered, leaning over to his older brother, who was staring at him in silent surprise, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Arthur."

England wished him goodnight as well when the kid left his bedroom quietly and went over to the door to the guestroom. But before even opening it, he remembered one little aspect of Scotland's sleeping habits that might be hazardous to his own sleep if he slept in the same room as the Scot: his snoring. With a grimace, he recalled several other times he'd heard him do so. North was a light sleeper, and Scotland was just loud enough to wake him. So he went back to the livingroom, where Wales, Ireland and Canada were. The couch wasn't an option, as Wales had to be able to move freely in the morning -or perhaps at night as well. With a little brother beside him, it wasn't exactly the easiest task to get off a couch if he couldn't move his legs. And Canada was still too much of a stranger to the child. So Ireland it would be, then. Quietly, he moved the sheets aside and got under them. Neither of the three nations was already asleep, obviously, so he got three stares as he did this. "What's wrong, Coineach?" Ireland asked softly, though he seemed very happy North was joining him instead of England. "I thought you wanted to sleep next to Arthur?"

The young nation, who'd become quite tired over the past few minutes, nodded drowsily. "But he's hurt," he mumbled with a yawn. "And I don't want to hurt him further... And Al snores." Canada laughed softly and then patted the child on his back. "Well, you're welcome to sleep between us. Goodnight, kiddo."_ 'Kiddo'_, Northern Ireland thought with a frown. _Strange word... must be American or something..._ With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes, drifting off nearly immediately. He hadn't even realised he'd been this tired. When he was nearly asleep, he vaguely heard Canada say, "He's a cute kid, isn't he?" From both Wales and Ireland, there was an agreeing hum. But then Ireland answered, "Just wait until the morning, lad..." to which Wales added an annoyed grunt, clearly remembering the many mornings he too had been woken by the kid even before sunrise. Then he slowly fell alseep, completely at ease. Somehow, despite everything that had happened over the past months, snuggling up to Ireland and falling asleep in his big brother's arms was still one of the best things in the entire world.

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><p>The next morning, England went to his livingroom as quietly as he could. He wasn't sure if anyone was awake yet -Scotland sure wasn't- but most likely, Northern Ireland had taken care of that... Then again, he hadn't woken Scotland yet, so maybe he'd decided not to wake anyone this morning. However, the moment England walked into the room, he saw something he hadn't expected in the least: Northern Ireland was still fast asleep... next to Ireland. After his initial shock about the child finally sleeping in had faded, only a deep, vague sense of anger remained. It wasn't that he thought Ireland's constant presence was bad for him, not at all... but still, England prefered to keep the two apart as much as possible. The older Irishman could sometimes be too affectionate, to the point that it could hardly be described as brotherly anymore. Up to this point, whenever North questioned this, England had always been able to explain to him that Ireland once had a parent-role to Scotland and Wales as well, shortly after their mother died, and he had raised North in his first year. Some bits and pieces of that role still remained, so he could sometimes act a bit fatherly. However, if one day Ireland would decide to tell North that he was his father -which England believed to be false, anyway- it would be nothing short of a disaster.<p>

With a sigh, England went over to the curtains and opened them, allowing the dim light of the morning sun fall into the room, which slowly woke the four other nations. With a yawn, Canada looked up, blinking in the sudden light, then looking up at the older nation drowsily. "_Oh, bonjour, Arthur..._" England only smiled, surpressing a grimace at hearing his most hated language first thing in the morning. The teen couldn't help it, after all: being bilingual, one could never know for sure with what language they'd wake up. Only a few seconds after that, there was a soft, "Bloody hell, Coineach, let me sleep for _one morning._" A moment later, Ireland realised the child was still asleep next to him, and instead, it had been England. Grumbling a bit, he greeted his younger brother, then gave Wales a quick, gentle poke in the side. "Meeting's startin' in an hour or so... get up."

"Ha! Do you honestly think I'm so generous as to give you an entire hour?" England joked with a smirk. "Fourty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast and getting ready in any other way. I'll go wake Allistair now..."

In the end, the entire 'meeting' lasted two hours and a bit, and was used mostly to get everyone up to date on the developments in the war. Tomorrow, when Ireland would've left along with North again, they'd continue and try to develop new strategies. At the end of it, England had pulled Ireland along into the backyard, adding specifically that he needed a moment alone with his brother to discuss certain things and the others should not try to folow them. Ireland himself didn't seem to get it, not immediately, but when England stood with his back turned to him, arms crossed over his chest, realisation slowly began to seep in. "You must've been very pleased that he came to you and not Al, hm?" the Englishman asked eventually, voice soft but with a nasty edge to it. Before Ireland had a chance to answer, his little brother went on, "If you ever try to... change his truth... Cearul, I swear, I'll rip out your tongue and hang it on my wall as a war trophy. That's something you simply cannot do. So please, surpress any... 'fatherly instincts' from now on." Ireland only narrowed his eyes and went to stand in front of England, who now had no excuses to turn away from him again and was forced to look him in the eyes. "And what, Artie," Ireland demanded slowly, his eyes flashing with anger. "What is so wrong about that? If I never tell him anything-"

"It's confusing for him!" England interrupted his older brother, raising his voice a bit, but still careful enough to not let anyone inside the house hear a word. "You don't know how many times he's come to me, asking 'why Cearul does this' and 'why Cearul says that'. He doesn't understand!"

Ireland, who had his hands folded into fists by now, retorted, "An' I think _you_ don't understand what it's like for _me!_ Every day, _every single day_, having him so close yet so far away _hurts._ And every day the pain seems to only increase..." England huffed, rolling his eyes. As if he didn't know that! But it was ridiculous, all of it, and Ireland should man up and be willing to sacrifice. If he truly loved his supposed 'son', he wouldn't say a word and act like a brother instead. When England mentioned this, however, it was like something exploded inside of his oldest brother, and Ireland almost started yelling. "An' isn't that exactly what I've been doing for the past two decades? Okay, a few minor slip-ups, but try to understand! It's like... like... Like the American Revolution was to ye!" England's eyes widened a bit, not only because of the mention of said revolution, but mostly because he just really didn't see the connection. "Ye raised America, lad," Ireland tried to explain. "He was like yer kid to ye, right? An' when he left... he would rather be alone than with ye. An' that hurt, right? Coineach would rather be... rather be in the UK than with me, an' that _hurts_ every day. Even now, after months of having him with me, just seeing him so homesick is nothing short of torture. I just wish he could feel at home with _me_, too. After all, to him, I'm no less his brother than ye are, aren't I? Then why does he favour the three o'ye so much?"

England sighed, feeling a tiny twinge of pity in his heart. It's not like he wanted to hurt his older brother, but he wanted him to hurt his little brother even less. Northern Ireland was a child, Ireland wasn't. Out of the two of them, the most obvious one to have to make sacrifices was the adult. When Ireland let out a soft sigh, too, and muttered under his breath that sometimes, he wished he could just- England didn't let him speak further. "Just _what_, Cearul?" he demanded angrily, raising his voice as much as Ireland had just now. "Tell him your so-called 'truth'? Do you have any inkling how downright _cruel_ that would be? He's not your son, he's our little brother! That's _his_ truth, that's all he knows! And doing what _you_ want, Cearul, would destroy his entire world and everything he knows!" He gave Ireland a rough poke in the chest, one that was so hard, his own two fingertips actually hurt. "He isn't yours, brother, and he never will be. You had your chance and didn't take it. You can suffer for eternity for all I care, you're _not_ hurting _my little brother_, got it?" Without waiting for a reply, he walked past Ireland and to the door, but before opening it, he looked over his shoulder and shot the older nation one last glare. "You can take him with you again this afternoon, but remember this: on a national scale, he's under _my _authority. I can just as easily take him away from you and give him to the government to be raised by them for the time being. The royal family, perhaps. And trust me, one more slip-up, _and I will do it._"

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><p><strong>So eh... yeah... Artie and Cearul aren't exactly on the same line about Coineach...<strong>

**Anyway, I know the many time-skips can be annoying, but there's up to _1998_ for me to write about. That's _sixty bloody years_ to fit into this story! And I love doing it, but no way am I making this a hundred chapters or longer! XD**

**So, as I still have nothing else to add... have a nice day, and thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I can honestly say, this was the first chapter I didn't have to rewrite. Not even a bit. The only one that didn't come out like a film-script first! (Ah, bless the fact that darned Writer's Block is finally gone~)**

**Crossfire, thanks for the lovely review. Each and every review is always lovely, after all!**

**Well, I hope you'll enjoy chapter 6 of Trouble!**

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><p>1941 was a terrible year for the Allies. The attacks on Britain continued for a long time, the Germans invaded the Soviet Union, and to top it all off, Japan attacked the United States of America, forcing the Americans to join the war. Very few nations in the world had nothing to do with this war anymore: either they participated in it directly, or they were pulled into it through invasions, earlier colonisation by participants or other such connections. It was truly a World War, a great battle like none before. The Brits hoped that America's participation, like in the previous World War, would prove to be the turning point and mean a quick Allied victory, but it didn't. The Germans continued their invasion of the Soviet Union, America was too preoccupied with fighting Japan to truly fight anywhere else, and the Italian Empire had made it's way into North Africa and was invading several nations there.<p>

England and Scotland were both at the front in North Africa by now, in Egypt. It was late November 1941, and by then, they hadn't won a single battle yet, which was discouraging to say the least. Things seemed to be going well until the Germans sent troops to assist the Italians earlier that year. They had been fighting another battle over the past few days, something they called Operation Crusader and was meant to relieve the Siege of Torbuk and drive back the Axis. Right now, however, they were in the tent they shared and were supposed to rest and regain some strenght, as they would join the battle again the next day. Neither of the brothers managed to even close his eyes, however, and they were simply discussing things. No matter how hard they tried to speak of a subject other than war, they couldn't, and the conversation would somehow always come back to the situation at hand, previous wars and fears for the future.

"I can hardly aim well in this place," Scotland sighed as he was once again carefully wiping his glasses, which were pretty damaged by now -and this had been his second spare pair already. "The sand damages the glass... I mean, laddie, just look at 'em! Completely covered in scratches an' what not..." With a scowl, he put them aside, glaring at the ground under his feet -sand, of course. "Great idea they had, sendin' me off here an' not somewhere... less sandy... But then again, at least yer not alone now, aye?" England nodded slowly. He was still only halfway through processing the Scot's words. Never before had he been this tired, and he could only wonder how anyone could expect him to lead this operation while he was in this state. Well, he wasn't the only one leading it, three of his people were taking care of that role, too. But a nation was always the leader of his troops, no exceptions. Then, when he finally really took in Scotland's last words, he nodded again. "And I'm glad I'm not," he mumbled, shivering a bit. Temperatures in this area could drop dramatically at night, and it was winter at that. The desert wasn't exactly a place where one could find snow, but it sure did get cold when the sun went down. Scotland seemed cold, too, so he offered to make a fire just outside the tent so they could sit around it. England shook his head, however, and said he prefered staying inside the tent. He wouldn't say it out loud, but this tent was the one place where he didn't have to see soldiers or weapons or wounded or dead. Here, he could pretend there wasn't a war going on at all, and he was just... camping in the Scottish highlands with his brother or something. Anything to not think about the horrible war.

"Bein' alone is the worst during times like these, ain't it?" Scotland sighed eventually, averting his gaze again. Almost the moment he said this, memories of the First World War came to mind, memories of the year he spent alone at the front in France. England was in the navy back then, Wales tasked with defending Great Britain and Ireland, who had still been a member of the UK and thus participated in the war, was defending his own land -and also going behind his brothers' backs and planning a rising, they found out later in 1916. Scotland had been in France from early August '14 to August '15, when he'd been caught up in an attack on his troops which involved poisonous gas. He'd been the only survivor, and just barely made it himself. Though his recovery had been quick enough, he'd breathed at least twice the amount of gas that could kill a human, had stumbled into barbed wire as he fled and was thus left with cuts all over his body and was then shot by two German soldiers. The last part, he now understood, had been an act of mercy. The soldiers hadn't known who he was, hadn't known he was immortal, and were merely trying to spare him the torture of dying a slow death. But the real torture had come after the attack, when he woke up again nearly a week later in a hospital in London... and opened his eyes to emptiness. The poison gas had damaged his eyes and left him blind. After more than a year of living in a world of unrelenting darkness, he finally started to distinguish light from dark again, but even from that moment on it had taken six months until he could actually _see_ again. His sight, however, had never become what it used to be anymore, and now, he was feeling the effects of that.

England had his own terrible memories of loneliness, too, though the worst dated far back. Much further than this century or even the two before it. He'd been alone from the moment he'd been born, held only by two people in his first two years of life. Directly after he'd been born, he'd been in the arms of his oldest brother, who had been no older than eleven at the time, and his mother's, who then died a few seconds later. Ireland, in sheer panic and grief, had left his newborn brother in the woods and had taken his two little brothers, Scotland of six (physically at least) and Wales of physically and biologically one, away to another forest far away from the one they had always lived in. _That_ was the most painful memory England had, without a doubt. He'd never gone through something like Scotland or Wales, having to live with disabilities for a longer period of time, but he'd struggled with depression and, if he had to be honest, also severe paranoia towards every other nation on the planet from the day he was born. No one had ever cared about him, and he never cared about anyone. That had been his life, that had been the reason for so many of the wars he'd fought, and it was the most horrible thing he knew.

Ireland, too, has had a hard time this century. First there was the inner turmoil about whether he'd stay with his brothers or not (caused by the hostility between Ulster and the rest of Ireland), then having to betray his family during the rising, the First World War and everything going on at the same time. After having hurt his brothers, he'd felt so guilty he plunged right into a depression. For six months he'd stayed away from his little brothers, not even giving them a single sign of life during that time. And all that time he'd been slowly destroying himself. He barely ate, became even more of an alcoholic than he already was and started cutting himself on an almost daily basis. For half a year, the oldest of the four siblings had been suicidal out of sheer guilt.

For everyone in the family, this entire century so far had been hell, and they all simply wished for the century to be over already. "But we can't just sleep through it all, can we?" England asked softly, chuckling, though there was no joy in his voice at all. "We still have 58 years and a bit to go..." Scotland sighed, nodding, his face twisted in a slight grimace. "Indeed... but damn the twentieth century. Just give me the twenty-first already. I'm sick of this constant war."

"Though there's no telling if there will ever be peace again, of course..."

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><p>Northern Ireland was almost out of breath already, but he continued his workout with the same determination. He was far too young to join battle still, but when Wales mentioned the four older siblings had all fought wars at this physical age, he'd become determined to at least learn to fight. Neither Wales or Ireland was pleased with his decision at first, but by now, the Welshman was helping him. Wales was sitting in front of North, holding up a hand for a split second, at which North would flash out his fist and try to hit it in time and so on. And sometimes, Wales would try to punch the child (though carefully, of course) which Northern Ireland would then have to block. "Come on now, Coineach!" he said, smiling at his little brother's efforts. He was really trying hard, and Wales admired that. "Don't give up yet -keep it up for two more minutes and we're done for now!" North, panting, gave a quick nod, swiftly blocking a punch from his big brother and retaliating. He'd been training like this for three weeks already, and he was getting better with the day. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Ireland enter the room and halting in the doorway, looking at his two younger brothers for a moment then leaving again. By the time he came back, North and Wales were done with the training session, and the child was gasping for breath. When he spotted the two glasses of water his big brother was holding, his green eyes lit up and he grinned. "Ah -yes, please!" he choked out, quickly taking the water and gulping it down his burning throat in mere seconds.<p>

"Don't ye think yer training a bit too hard?" Ireland asked with a smirk as he ruffled the kid's hair. "Ye dun' have to be an expert in just a month time, y'know. Ye can take it easy some days." But Northern Ireland shook his head and, with a quick sidewards glance at Wales, who nodded approvingly, grabbed the second glass of water that was meant for Wales as well and drank it quickly. "I can't take it easy!" he protested when he finished half the water, and paused until he downed the second half of it as well. "I can't! Arthur and Allistair can't take it easy, so why can I? I'm training to fight just as hard as them!" Ireland just laughed for a moment, then offered, "Do ye want to resume practice with bow an' arrow too, then? I think ye have much better aim now than three years ago, an' I'm happy to teach ye." Northern Ireland didn't hesitate a second before nodding enthusiatically. He was always impressed by how well Ireland handled his bow and arrows -but then again, the nation had used it for nearly a thousand years to catch his food with. He lived off using that thing for centuries on end -of course he'd be very experienced with it. North was already looking forward to the lessons.

"Do you really want to teach him how to handle weapons?" Wales demanded, giving his older brother a doubtful look. "I thought we promised not to let him use weapons until he-" But Ireland shook his head and interrupted him. "We were talking about knives and guns then, lad. An' d'ye honestly think I'd let him roam the streets with a bow in his hand and a full quiver on his back? He can use my bow to practice with, I'm not getting him his own." Ireland then glanced at North and added, "And no one would be stupid enough to sell a weapon to a child, so it's not like he can get one himself. Don't worry, Dylan. This is even more harmless than teaching him hand-to-hand combat techniques. An' besides, look at the things we used and did at his age, as ye said yerself not too long ago!"

"_Physical age_," Wales corrected his brother with an exasperated sigh. "He's only twenty, whereas we were well over a century or older!" Northern Ireland then put in, "I'm the same age as many people over at the warfront, I just don't look like it! You can't treat me like a child all the time, because I'm not! And don't talk about me as if I'm not here, sitting right beside you!" He then stormed off, slamming the door to the livingroom closed behind him. The two brothers sat dumbfounded and shocked as they listened to his footsteps going up the stairs at a quick pace. "What's gotten into him all of a sudden?" Wales mumbled to himself as he looked at the closed door with a frown. Ireland shrugged, not too sure himself. "Probably just the stress," he sighed. "Fear, anger, constant nerves... It's what war does to a person, and no matter what he might state, he _is_ still a kid after all..." After a few moments of silence, he asked quietly, "Should I go after him?"

Wales quickly shook his head. "If you recall Arthur's threat -I, eh... accidentally overheard him muttering something about it to Allistair after you'd left back then- I think it might be best if I go instead."

"He went upstairs, lad. Nice try."

Wales then rolled his eyes and averted his gaze with a sigh. "Well, then we should just let him fume for a moment. He'll talk when he's ready to talk, I'm sure. Once he gets hungry or thirsty he'll be downstairs again in a heartbeat." Ireland only gave a short nod, getting up and heading back to his study to continue doing his paperwork for the day, leaving Wales to do pretty much the same. As they were trying to teach North new things, they also couldn't forget fulfilling their duties as nations, which they sometimes rather would.

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><p>Hours went by, and North still didn't show up. So when the sun nearly set and the two brothers still hadn't heard so much as a squeak from the child, Wales agreed that they should go check on him. 'They' being only Ireland, he remembered with a sigh, as he couldn't get up the stairs. Slowly, Ireland went upstairs and called out to Northern Ireland softly, a bit unsure what to do or say. He hoped he would at least get an answer from the child, so he could tell what mood he was in and could adjust his methods to that. But it remained silent, which was perhaps the biggest hint of all: obviously North still didn't want to see him, or anyone else for that matter. With a soft sigh, Ireland gave a soft knock on the door to North's bedroom, calling him again. Still no reaction. Worry seemed to stab into his heart like a thin needle at this, so he opened the door. "Coineach, lil'-" The moment he walked into the room, his heart seemed to stop and his breath stuck in his throat. Northern Ireland was on the floor, curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his midriff and a pained expression on his face. His breathing came in quick gasps. He didn't seem to be conscious, though, which was what was most worrying. "Coineach? W-wake up, lad!" Ireland said frantically as he got onto his knees beside the child, trying to wake him. His heart was pounding against his ribs, so wild it actually hurt, as he picked up North's limp body and held him in his arms. "Hey, come on! C'mon, kid, wake up! Please, Coineach, j-just wake up...!" An eternity seemed to have gone by until Northern Ireland finally blinked open his eyes again, green irises staring up at his older brother through slits. They were glazed over with pain, and the 'needle of worry' in Ireland's heart had grown to the size of a sword by now.<p>

"C-Cearul...?" North asked, his voice rasping, as he began fidgeting in his brother's arms, clearly in discomfort. Ireland helped him sit up, though the child still leaned against his big brother's shoulder, then asked him if he remembered anything about what had happened. North shook his head, grunting a bit at the motion, then answered softly, "Not exactly... But I was about to come downstairs again when... I-I just suddenly got really dizzy when I got up from my bed, and... I guess I blacked out...?" Ireland put his arm around the child's shoulder, as Northern Ireland had begun to shiver a bit by now, and the placed his free hand to North's forehead and cheek in turn. "You're warm..." he mused, only the slightest worry making it over his lips, as England's warning still haunted him right now. "How're ye feelin', Coineach?"

"Not so good..." North answered in a tiny voice, barely audible. "Cold, dizzy, nausious and tired..." Ireland sighed, pulling the young nation just a little closer. He already thought something like this would happen, as it was bound to happen before this war ended. When he asked how long the child had been feeling like this, North shrugged a little and answered, "A-all week, though it wasn't this bad before..."

"And yet ye insisted on working out like that every day?" Ireland asked, though it didn't really come out as a question and he went on before North could even answer, "Well, lil' brother, I'm not sure whether to be amused or worried... or even whether I should scold ye for bein' so reckless or just congratulate ye, but... Well, ye managed to overexert yerself for the very first time, I guess." North furrowed his brows and looked up at Ireland. He was feeling sick and tired and just plain awful, and Ireland was talking about being amused and _congratulating him_ for it? "Why would overworking myself be something good...?" he asked, confused. Ireland just smiled at him, a hint of pity in his eyes. "Well, it appears to be a thing in our lil' family," he explained. "We've all been at this point several times before. It was only a matter o'time before 'twas yer turn, actually, though I'd hoped it would be a while yet, of course..." North then nodded slowly, finally understanding. There were a few things that were a common occurence in this family, including getting drunk on a regular basis (except for North, obviously), believing several myths to be true (Scotland was still searching for the supposed 'Monster of Loch Ness'), being hotheaded when tired, being pretty much the most stubborn person out of all your people, having general bad luck and apparently also overworking oneself to this point.

"Anyway," Ireland then went on, glacing at the door briefly: North only now noticed a warm scent in the house. "Dylan should be nearly done finishing up dinner. D'ye want to come down and eat, or would ye rather just get into bed right now? Yer own choice." Northern Ireland considered it for a moment: he wasn't feeling up for dinner and would indeed rather just go to bed and sleep for a day, but his empty stomach didn't like the idea as much. So he said he'd eat a little first, though he really didn't want much as he thought he wouldn't be able to hold it in for long. So carefully, he went down the stairs, holding onto the railing as to not tip over and fall if he got dizzy again, Ireland watching him carefully, ready to help if needed. But he got downstairs without any trouble, though his pace was a bit slow. He and Ireland went into the kitchen first, where indeed, Wales was just finishing cooking dinner. He seemed shocked at seeing how pale the child had become in a matter of hours, asked him if he was alright, to which Ireland explained the situation quickly. Guilt flashed in the disabled nation's eyes, and he looked at Northern Ireland, sighing, "I'm sorry, little brother o'mine... I should have noticed that sooner. If I had, there's no way I would've let you train this much or help me out with paperwork or any of that." He laughed awkwardly for a moment, averting his gaze as he added, "W-well, damn, I'm beginning to feel like an irresponsible brother here!" But North shook his head, told him he wasnt, then climbed onto his lap and curled up against him. "I was the stupid one," he said softly, closing his eyes. "Not you. I shouldn't have been this stubborn." Wales patted him on his head gently, then asked Ireland if he could bring the pot of stew to the dining table for him. After that, he rolled over to the dining table with Northern Ireland still on his lap, placing one hand one the shivering boy's shoulder.

Ireland sighed as he put out the fire on the stove and brought the pot of food to the table, ready for dinner. He admired Northern Ireland's determination, he really did. But the young nation could sometimes be too determined to become like his big brothers. If only he knew the hardships the family had gone through and knew how much of it they'd caused themselves... maybe he wouldn't be as keen on becoming like them. And just maybe, that would be for the best.

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><p><strong>Okay, so, the first part was a bit of a recap of main events in Rising for those that haven't read Rising first... And other than that just Al and Artie having a moment.<strong>

**And the second half, well... He had to catch it at some point. Overworking seems to be an epidemic within the British/Irish family, they can't really help it.**

**It won't be too long before he's up and about again, though, no worries. He's a kid and kids are too stubborn to be sick for a long time. **

**Well, thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, and please leave a much appreciated review to tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Wow... why is it, that when you type something in Wordpad it always looks huge... then it turns out it's not that big a chapter at all?**

**Anyway, I'm back with chapter 7! In this one, some more international stuff for North to get used to, more history, and then some bonding...**

**Crossfire, thanks a lot for the review, once again! They still never fail to make me happy!**

**And now, without further ado...**

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><p>By December 1941, the US, Britain, Australia and China declared war on Japan, who had by then attacked them all several times, focusing on the pacific area and Southeast Asia. And a month later, in January 1942, the Declaration of United Nations was issued, which stated that none of the Allied forces -and other governments- would not sign a peace treaty with any of the axis seperate from the other Allies. During this year, there were also several negotiations between the Allies on how to continue from this point onward.<p>

"I say Operation Sledgehammer is the way to go," America said for the thousandth time already. He and his president insisted that their plan, a large-scale attack on Germany using 48 Allied divisions, would be the best course of action from now. The United Kingdom didn't agree, or at least Great Britain. Northern Ireland, who was attending a meeting such as this for the very first time, wasn't too sure. He thought it would be okay, but if three of his older brothers were against it, he would go along with them. He mostly remained silent and inspected the other nations, listening to America as he went on. "We'll attack them head-on and defeat them in mere weeks if we all work together on this! We'll work our way into Berlin and take it over. Then they won't be so willing to fight us anymore, I'm telling ya!"

Northern Ireland did notice that America wasn't exactly an expert at explaining military tactics. Even North could follow every bit of his idea, which wasn't too good, because he only understood about half of the other nations' ideas, which were thus far more complicated. And in his mind, complicated and good really went well together. England scoffed a little by the time America was done speaking and, crossing his arms over his chest, protested, "America, we've explained to you before, attacking them right now would be like writing our own death sentence! We must first demoralise their troops and put them in a tight spot, _then _we'll strike. Using your idea if necessary, but _not yet._"

"And what about the second front we've been asking for?" the Soviet Union -represented only by Russia- asked, sending England and America a small glare. His question wasn't answered, and North doubted his older brother even heard it, as at the same time, America had started complaining about England never agreeing to any of his ideas. He claimed it was only because of England's grudge against him that the older nation thought all his plans to be 'rubbish', as the Brit put it. Of course England protested fiercely against this, Wales then tried to intervene but failed, and the two just continued bickering like they apparently always did. Northern Ireland leaned over to Scotland for a moment, asking in a whisper of England really had such a grudge against the American. Scotland only gave a quick nod without hesitation. "Absolutely, laddie," he eventually whispered back. "For bein' abandoned after he raised the lad... The Revolution an' all that."

"Well, if you don't agree," America said eventually, voice edged with anger. "I'd like to hear what the rest of the UK thinks about it!" Wales and Scotland quickly said they agreed with their little brother, while North remained silent. He wasn't even aware he was expected to speak for the first time that day until America urged him on, "Well? And what does my lil' uncle over there think, hm? What about you, Ken-Con-C...North?" He still couldn't pronounce the name right. But Northern Ireland didn't even realise that, as all nations and people were now looking at him, waiting for him to say something. It was then that he felt like the eight-year-old he looked like, tiny and stupid compared to all the others in here. "I-uh, well... I-I..." he stammered, not sure what to say. Not even sure if he could bring himself to speak at all. Eventually he squeaked in a tiny voice "I agree with Arthur!" then pressed himself against Scotland's shoulder, trying his utmost to hide from everyone in the room.

"Ah, laddie," Scotland then complained to America, a disapproving look in his pale blue eyes. "Did ye have t'ask _him_ that? This is his first meetin', he's just a kid an' he's definitely not an expert in warfare. Hardly fair to put him under pressure like that, now is it?" He then put his arm around North, who pressed even closer to his big brother as if to strengthen the Scot's point. America sighed and apologised, "Yeah, right... sorry for that, kid."

Northern Ireland just went red with shame as he realised he just messed up the very first time he could speak in front of other nations during an important meeting. His first chance to show them he was a nation just like them, not just a little kid, and he blew it. Now they all surely thought he wasn't old enough to be here yet, not experienced enough to know anything, too childish to even take the situation serious. And he only made it worse by hiding against his big brother just now. Making up his mind in a split second, he pulled away from Scotland again, sitting with his back straight and his chin up. He refused to be seen as weak and little again. But suddenly, Russia asked once again when he would get the second front, which was meant to help his army fight the Germans as they couldn't do it by themselves anymore at this point. Anger laced his voice and North saw deep hatred in his eyes as he looked at America and the United Kingdom, which startled the child a bit. He couldn't remember ever having seen someone so angry.

"We cannot do that yet, Russia," England said carefully, also clearly noticing the other nation's frustration. "If we take away our focus from where we are fighting right now, we'll-"

"So you're just going to stand by and do nothing as my people are being slaughtered?!" Russia demanded, raising his voice as he got up and slammed his hands on the desk. "Winter was usually the thing that saved my people -we are used to the cold and our opponents aren't. Usually, they die of hypothermia and all such things, but now-!" He gritted his teeth for a moment, glaring at the desk as he folded his hands into tight fists. "Prussia has taken control of the German troops in my territory. _He _is just as used to the cold as me, having grown up in a similar climate centuries ago. _He _decides the tactics, and though they still aren't experts in the snow like my people, the Germans are doing a much better job at surviving and killing than in the previous world war. Out of all of us, _I_ have lost the most people!"

"And why do you think that is, Russia?" America asked, not impressed by the older nation's tirade. "You have the most people out of all of us, after all. The greatest army, too. If the only thing that can save your people in a war is your harsh winter, then doesn't that mean your army is incompetent and weak?"

Russia seemed ready to explode in rage at this, and if it weren't for the desk between them, he'd have gone to America and beaten him to a pulp for sure, the way North saw it. "_Ублюдок_! How dare you! My people are communists, not warmachines! We don't live to fight like _some_ of us here seem to do, thinking we can change the whole goddamn world! _We're realistic,_ and we live to better each other's and our own lives. War is not part of that. Why do you think I signed that treaty with the Germans before all this? I never anticipated they would break the pact, so my people weren't ready. And that is the _only _reason for our defeat!"

"Are you saying I'm a warmachine?" America then demanded, also getting up. "That I live only to fight and ruin other nations' lives? You say you're realistic, but yet you didn't even properly prepare for war, which you could've known was coming! You-!"

At that moment, China intervened quickly. "That's enough, of the both of you! Stop acting like children, even though you still are. That little boy over there is more mature than the two of you put together!" He pointed at Northern Ireland briefly, who went red again. As the two fighting nations sat down again, still glaring at each other, China huffed and crossed his arms. "Honestly, you two. I know I'm the oldest in here, but that the others would be _so childish_..." Northern Ireland stared at the Chinese man for a moment, and completely against his will, his concentration slipped and his thoughts wandered off for a moment. China wasn't just the oldest nation in this room, he was the oldest nation on the entire planet. He was at least four thousand years old, he'd seen empires rise and fall, nations disappear into nothingness and new ones being born. And yet, which was perhaps the strangest thing about him, he looked very young. England had told North that his father, the Roman Empire, had been the physically-oldest nation he'd ever seen, being in his early thirties. England was already older than his father had been when he died, and he was considered twenty-three by most people. China was more than twice his age and, to North's eyes, looked to be twenty-five at most. Even younger than Scotland, at least, who was widely considered to be twenty-six by humans. Other than his stunningly young appearance, the old nation looked different from anything North had ever seen before. He'd seen Asians sometimes, though not very often, so he was more or less familiar with their different skintone at least. But China's hair, which was a very dark brown, was long and tied into a ponytail that reached over his shoulders. It was a hairstyle that seemed strange to the child, more like something for a woman. Then there were his eyes. Brown eyes were perfectly normal, but these seemed to be almost honey-coloured, which was the most unique eyecolour he'd ever seen...

It was only when he got startled by the sound of Scotland's deep voice beside him that North remembered he had to focus on this meeting. Slightly ashamed that he'd let himself wander off like that, he listened to what his big brother had to say and to everything that was said after it.

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><p>Two days later, North was with Scotland in the older nation's home. It was one of the last weeks he had left with his two older brothers before he and Wales would have to go back to Ireland again, though this time they'd be in Belfast for a month or two at the very least. He'd spent most of 1942 with his older brothers in the UK since they'd come back from North Africa, but soon they would be sent away again or be too busy to have North around. But the young nation didn't want to leave them quite yet, especially not after having been with Ireland for over a year -not that he disliked Ireland, he loved him very much, but he always enjoyed staying with other UK members more.<p>

"I wish you didn't have to fight anymore," Northern Ireland sighed as he sat beside his big brother, leaning against his shoulder and reading a book together with him. Scotland stopped reading immediately and let out a soft sigh. "Yeah, me too, laddie..." he sounded tired, not physically but just _tired_. Tired of the constant fighting, the tensions and the entire war. "Me too... But the harder we work, the sooner it's over. You know that, right?" Northern Ireland nodded slowly, snuggling up to Scotland just a bit more, enjoying the warmth. He also liked feeling his brother's shoulder rising and falling rythmically as he breathed, hear his heartbeat, however distant. Those were all the little things he hadn't even known he'd missed until he sensed them again like this.

"I just don't want to go to Ireland..." he mumbled eventually, after which Scotland remained silent a little too long to his liking: it meant he was shocked at hearing that little sentence. But he sounded calm as he asked, "Cearul or just Ireland?"

"...Just Ireland..."

"Why not? Yer goin' to Belfast, right? I know it's not yer favourite place t'be yet, but ye know y'always feel better once ye come there. It's yer capital an' it's yer home. An' one day, when yer old enough, ye'll live there by yerself," the Scot then explained softly, remaining just as calm as ever. North nodded again. Scotland was right, he did always feel great when he was in Belfast. He'd been born there and it was his capital, but he just didn't want to go there now. Not with Ireland. "Cearul hates it there," he explained. "He always gets a little on edge in Belfast, gets angry a lot quicker than usual and just seems plain unhappy... I don't want to be there with _him_."

"So Cearul _is _the problem," Scotland mused, not sounding surprised at all. But Northern Ireland quickly shook his head, protesting. He didn't mind being with his oldest brother, but he just didn't want to be with him in Belfast, for obvious reasons. "And, well..." he mumbled after a little while. "I don't always like the way he acts around me. Same for Dylan. All my life, they've been... overprotective? I don't know the right word for it, but... You know what I mean, right?"

Scotland nodded, not looking at North as he took a deep breath. "Well, I can't blame them," he replied. "An' 'specially not Cearul. He's the oldest an' yer the youngest, laddie. He sees it as his duty to protect ye an' take care o'ye, like we all do. Dylan loves ye very much an' doesn't want anythin' bad to ever happen to ye. Artie an' I don't act like that because we're just different in that. I always liked a certain amount o'freedom back when I was a wee lil' lad, Artie took care of himself from day one. Not only that, he's raised many colonies, so he knows how to raise a kid very well. Cearul an' Dylan just want ye t'be safe an' happy."

North pouted in frustration, averting his gaze when Scotland looked down at him. "I know, but do they have to act like my _parents _all the time? Especially Cearul seems to think he's like... my dad or something sometimes." The silence after this didn't last long enough, contrary to the previous ones. Scotland's answer came so quick, it almost seems defensive.

"And though he isn't, I also can't blame the old man for that," he said quickly, and North looked up at him again, confused. Upon seeing the confusion in his little brother's eyes, the Scot sighed, and begun explaining slowly. The first thing North noticed about him was how his entire mood seemed to have changed in a split second. He looked even more tired than before and... just _sad._ "Y'know what I hate most 'bout bein' a nation?" he asked first, to which North answered with 'immortality', as he heard his older brother complain about it sometimes. But Scotland shook his head. "No, though in certain situations it _is_ a close second. No, what I hate most, is how humans think of us as privileged because of our immortality, while _they _are the most privileged creatures on Earth. What good is immortality, when you have no one to share it with?"

"But we have each other," North piped up, even more confused by now. "We're a family, the five of us."

"We are, but... not _like that_," Scotland answered, explaining further. "I know we're all brothers and I couldn't be happier with y'all. I mean, we all really care 'bout each other and care for one another... But it's not always the type of family I'd like. An' I think the same goes for Cearul. I know _ye_ probably never thought about it before, an' at yer age that's normal, but... when one has lived for thousands o'years, there's always that lil' thought... 'It's unfair that we live so long, but aren't allowed to share our eternity'. We can't have a family like humans do, we can't be parents, we can't get married to someone we love... we can't even have a relationship with someone even without marriage involved. An' when a nation _does_ marry, it's unvoluntarily to another nation, sometimes someone they can't stand, all for the sake of a strong union of two nations. Because their government wishes so." Northern Ireland was completely silent now, staring up at Scotland as the older nation was explaining all this, finally beginning to understand...

"The worst part is befriending our people. An' then, after a few years, we get an invitation to their wedding. A few years after that a letter saying they're now proud parents of the cutest lil' baby ye've ever seen. After little less than two decades, ye get another proud letter with a photograph of that kid's graduation from high school, yer human friends beside their child, happier than they've ever been. Give it a few more years an' they'll come to visit ye, tellin' ye they're now grandparents... An' ye know what happens a few decades later? They die. They die, and ye go to their funeral, and ye see their children an' grandchildren there, and yer out o'the picture even though ye've been that person's friend their entire life. And at moment ye realise ye don't belong in the same world humans do. A nation can never find someone to grow old with, have a family, watch them grow up happy and healthy, then die after a beautiful life. We have a beginning with no end, a life without a chance to live. And sometimes I just wish I was human, too, even if it meant I'd die after a few decades. At least I could lead the life I see so many others do. Because that -seeing how others lead the life ye deem perfect while ye can never have it- is by far the loneliest thing in the world."

Northern Ireland was silent after that, not even sure what just happened. Scotland was always the most cheerful one of all his brothers, so where... where did all this come from? Did he really always keep all that bottled up inside of him and just acted happy and cheerful? He hoped Scotland's personality _wasn't _an act, that he was truly happy even though he had regrets like these. And that Ireland, too, probably felt like this sometimes, same for Wales and England... It was horrible. North had always liked being a nation, but he'd never looked at the downside of it yet. And Scotland was right, at his age it was normal not to think about _this_ yet, but still... He now understood why Ireland acted the way he did. The time shortly after North had been born had probably been one of the few times his oldest brother had felt like -like a _normal person. _Physically Ireland was almost thirty -or thirty already, the young nation could never tell- and most humans that age had settled in with their partner already, were raising a young family... and for once in his eternal life, he'd been able to have something relatively close to that. And then North left to live with his other brothers in the United Kingdom, and all that had been taken away from him again. Northern Ireland almost felt bad for ever leaving, even though he'd been too young to really choose for himself back then.

And what about ancient nations like China? Suddenly, North wished he'd never be that old. Not if it had to be like that, not if his life had to be as lonely as Scotland described it to be.

"But, laddie," Scotland suddenly said, patting the young nation on the shoulder. "Don't let this get ye down, okay? I shouldn't...Well, it wasn't my intention to make it a sob-story like that, an' I'm sorry. When I say I sometimes wish that, I really mean _sometimes._ Usually I don't even think about it that much, none of us do. Because, as awful as it might sometimes be, life as a nation is beautiful as well, an' don't ye ever forget that. Our life is hard, but wonderful as well. Don't ever forget to look at the bright side, because that's the most important of all. Aye?"

And then Northern Ireland nodded and smiled again, reassured that his brothers were as happy with life as he was. And no matter what they might wish for sometimes, they would just have to accept the fact that _they_ were each other's family. And though they couldn't have anyone else,_ they _shared their eternity. The five of them, together.

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><p><strong>Well, I never said the bonding wasn't paired with angsty stuff. I've just been thinking lately that this must be the worst part of nation life. I can't imagine what it's like to live that long in the first place, but to live that long and <em>not share your life<em> with someone other than siblings... It must be awful.**

**Aaannnd Scotland hates it even more then he let's little North think. I think he, if he were a human, would definitely be the family-man type, so...**

**Anyway, thanks for reading again, and I hope you liked this chapter! I'm going to race through the rest of the World War from here on, so don't be surprised by the many time-skips. Thanks again!**


	8. Chapter 8

**And so, I managed to write the longest chapter yet, perhaps in both Trouble and Rising!**

**Crossfire, thank you for the wonderful review, and annalisedream for the follow! Way to brighten up a day!**

**Well, this chapter is quite angsty... You can't expect lovey-dovey fluff from me, not even after Valentine's day! (Though perhaps it's finally time for that PruIta fluff I've been wanting to write for so long now...?) So be warned.**

**Well, there's not much I have to say, so here you go, chapter 8:**

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><p>Everything around Northern Ireland was dark, a pitch black emptiness. He looked around, searching for light, searching for just <em>anything <em>he could see, but there was nothing around him at all. He called out, but he didn't even hear his own voice. His heart racing with fear, he started running as fast as he could, trying to escape the darkness. And eventually, after minutes at least, he saw something: a figure on the ground. Curious and relieved, he ran towards it, his heart beating even faster when he recognized the messy, dark red mop of hair that could only belong to Scotland. Though what made his heart beat even faster wasn't relief anymore, as the Scot's hair wasn't the only thing about him that was red. North wanted to stop running, to turn away and not look at his older brother, but he couldn't. Almost against his will, he got closer and closer until he stood beside him, looking down at the older nation wide-eyed. Scotland was wearing a military uniform, though considering the situation, nothing was strange about that. But the clothes were torn all over, thin but long rips covering it and blood soaking the cloth around the cuts. His hands and face, too, were covered in cuts and bruises and what looked like some sort of burns, so much so that North could hardly recognize his big brother. But what frightened the child most were his brother's eyes: it was as though a fog lay in them, not thick enough to hide his blue irisses completely, but more than enough to make them a milky gray with only hints of blue in them. But his pupils were nowhere to be found. His eyes, unseeing, stared into the darkness above him, and with a cold feeling of dread North realised his dear big brother was dead.

_I have to get to Arthur, _he thought frantically, finally turning around and running away, away from his brother's corpse as fast as he could. There was not a single thought in his mind at that moment, not one, except for that he _had to get to England._ And eventually he found him, but the moment he saw him, the dread that was growing in the pit of his stomach only got worse. England, too, was on the ground, lying on his front instead. A large pool of blood lay around him, and with shaking hands, North rolled his brother onto his back. His face was pale as a corpse, which the child already knew he was, anyway. His eyes, unlike Scotland's, were still normal, except that there was no light in them at all, not the usual shimmer of emotion, not anything. They, like his older brothers' had, stared ahead without seeing anything. What had caused his death was clear: a deep gash ran over his abdomen, blood steadily flowing out of it. The pool had expanded enough that North was now standing in it. Feeling sick to the stomach and shaky with fear, the child turned around once more.

He didn't have to look far before he found Wales, but once again he wished he hadn't found him. Wales lay on his side, back turned to North when the child found him, also bleeding. He lay almost curled into a ball, the agony he'd been in still visible in his expression. His eyes, at least, were closed, and North was grateful for that. If he had to see _one_ more dead stare from one of his brothers... he wouldn't even know what he would do. The most sickening part about Wales' corpse was not the fact he was dead, nor the blood gushing out of a gunshot wound in his abdomen, not even the expression of pure pain on his face. No, what really made North's stomach do a somersault, was his lower back. From his shoulders down to his waist, it looked perfectly normal. But at that point, it resembled a twig, snapped just like that, practically broken in half. At this, North let out a whimper, then a soft wail and some sobs, but still there wasn't a single sound coming over his lips even though he felt it all in his throat. His three big brothers were dead. He was the last person in the United Kingdom.

_But not in the family_, he told himself. _Cearul is still here._ He turned around, and suddenly saw the back of a chair which hadn't been there before: he'd come from that direction, after all. But he didn't even care where it came from, because he saw ginger hair that was just a shade lighter than his own, an arm that wasn't nearly as pale as North's other brothers had been, and reassured, he ran over to him. Judging by the position -or what North could see of it, anyway- Ireland was simply reading. But the child's heart nearly stopped when he went around the chair to stand in front of his oldest brother. Because no matter how you looked at it, Ireland was as dead as the other three were. He had no gruesome wounds like his younger brothers, but one, thin cut in the most crucial of places: his wrist, right across the artery. North stared at it for a while, unable to look away, then looked up to see Ireland's face. He couldn't very well see his eyes, though he thought they were closed, but he certainly did see the tear stains still on his cheeks and jaw. Northern Ireland was just starting to wonder what had happened, what had killed even the oldest and perhaps strongest of the family, when he saw something he hadn't noticed yet: a knife, small but razor sharp... in Ireland's own hand.

And that's when the boy screamed in terror.

He was sitting upright in an instant, gasping for breath as his heart pounded wild with fear. He screamed again, jumping out of his bed and running out of his room, slamming open the door to Ireland's. He saw his brother lying under the covers, mostly hidden under them, but definitely breathing. Still, he simply couldn't control himself after everything he'd just seen and ran over to him. "Cearul!" he called, biting back a sob. Even though he knew it had all just been a nightmare, the utter terror he'd felt still plagued him even now. "Cearul, wake up, _please wake up!_" But Ireland groaned -and with a shock, North realised he sounded like he was in pain- and curled up a bit, frowning in his sleep. "Cearul!" North kept calling him, growing more afraid with the second. "CEARUL!"

"Coineach..." Ireland now whispered in reply, though he sounded anything but pleased as he brought one hand to his forehead, his eyes shut tight. "Please don't..." Now, judging by the way his older brother sounded, North was certain Ireland was in pain, and he only got more scared and worried. "A-are you alright?!" he asked, panicked, and Ireland flinched, curling up even further as he hissed back, "No, dammit! Coineach, I haven't slept well in _days_, it's the middle o'the godforsaken night and my head is _damn well killing me!_ Be quiet, _please!_"

Northern Ireland, too, flinched and he took a step back, startled. "K-killing...?" he echoed, his voice hoarse. But Ireland didn't seem to notice the child's fear, as he turned around onto his other side, away from the young nation, answering, "_Yes_. These damn headaches... Coineach, would ye please be quiet?" he added when the child let out a soft whimper. "It's still early, lad... go back to sleep, okay? It'd be best for the both of us..." Northern Ireland shook his head, even though Ireland didn't look. The dream was still to fresh in his mind for him to sleep again. "But Cearul-!"

"Get out!" the Irishman interrupted harshly, sighing. "Coineach, I tried to ask ye nicely, tell ye why, but-" The young boy tried to say something else, but Ireland, clearly on edge because of whatever caused him pain right now, wouldn't even let him speak. "GET OUT!"

Startled and hurt, Coineach ran out of his big brother's room again without another word. In the hallway, he stood sniffling for a moment, not sure what to do now, then made up his mind and went down the stairs quickly. His vision was blurred with tears now, causing him to almost slip and fall halfway down the stairs, but once on the ground floor he immediately ran over to the door to Wales' room. His fingers were trembling so much, he could hardly open the door, and he was actually crying at this point. He just wanted to make sure all his brothers were okay, that they were still alive and well.

Wales didn't wake up when North entered his room, not even by the child's crying, his whimpers and his frantic sobs. He lay on his side, face turned to Northern Ireland, who didn't even bother to wake him and got into the bed instantly, crawling against his big brother under the covers. He hid his face against Wales' chest and cried, hugging him tightly. This woke up Wales after only a few seconds, and drowsily he asked, "C-Coineach...? Hey, kid, what's going on...?"

"Cearul-!" North choked out, stopping himself. Ireland had mentioned a headache, he recalled, and he suddenly remembered having seen his brother taking pills a lot the last few weeks. They must have been painkillers, he realised now, as Ireland had been complaining about constant headaches for a while now. And even through the painkillers, he sometimes still locked himself in his study with the curtains drawn and the lights out, just to have some darkness and quiet. Northern Ireland had probably woken him in the middle of a fairly severe headache, yelling and making a racket while the older nation hadn't even taken so much as a paracetamol. He could now understand his anger and frustration, though it did nothing to help the child right now. So instead of telling what had happened just a minute or two ago, North choked out, "J-just a rea-really s-scary dream..."

Wales, still half-asleep, hugged the boy a little tighter at that. "Well, don't you worry... 'twas just a dream..." North nodded, still sniffling and sobbing silently. Then, very softly, he said, "Y-you were all dead... all killed... i-it was so horrible!" Wales let out a low hum, trying to sound comforting, but he sounded mostly tired. "But we're not..." he tried to comfort his little brother. "We're all still breathing..." North nodded, but he just couldn't control himself and started crying again. Wales just whispered words of comfort to him, stroked his hair a bit and held him. After a little while, he lay still again, whispering, "Hey, Coineach..." The young boy sniffled again, trying to stay quiet even if just for a moment so he could hear what Wales wanted to tell him. His older brother shifted a bit, so that North lay with his ear against he older nation's chest. "Do you hear that?" And indeed, just hearing the Welshman's heartbeat and feeling him breathing calmed the boy down again, and he leaned against him, closing his eyes and trying to relax. "We're all alive, Coineach. It was just a bad dream," Wales mumbled, sounding as though he could fall asleep again any moment now. "My heart's still beating, and so is Cearul's and Allistair's and Arthur's and your's. We're all still alive and well. Now try and sleep again, okay? You can stay here with me, but try to sleep... it's way too early." North nodded again, letting out a shaky sigh. A sob still escaped his lips every few breaths, but he was calm again now, reassured that everything was alright. But just before he fell asleep again, warm and contently still held in his big brother's arms, he realised _he couldn't be sure. Who knew how Scotland and England were doing, after all?_

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><p>For it was the morning of 6 June, 1944. British and American troops invaded Normandy. America's plan was being used at last: it was an all-out attack on German forces in France. And once France was liberated, the rest of Europe would soon follow. That is, if the attack didn't fail. First they had to get past the beach, which was an ordeal in itself. England, Scotland and America were -and it was an truly exceptional thing in a war- on the same ship that was closing in on Omaha beach. They weren't the first to land, and they watched troops of mixed nationalities storming the beach. Some couldn't take much more than a few steps before something would explode. America got tense just looking at it. "Landmines," he hissed under his breath. "Those bastards..."<p>

"But wouldn't you do the same?" England questioned, trying to sound calm. But he too was tense as he shot the men on the beach horrified glances. America didn't answer that, so he didn't say a word more until the ship stopped moving, close to the shore. There, he took a deep breath, looked his older brother and America in the eyes and said, "Well, we'd better get down there... We're generals, after all, and immortals. They need us." And so, weapons in their hands, they went down and out into the water. The first few metres were the hardest, with the water up to their waist -or higher, in England's case- but eventually running felt almost like breathing -as if they'd done it their entire lives. They had to be quick and careful if they even wanted to get past the mines in one piece. And not only that, they were like sitting ducks for the German troops up on the cliffs if they were too slow. And who could guarantee Germany wasn't among them?

England didn't even notice he was out of breath after a few minutes, and just kept on running, trying to dodge attacks and firing a few bullets himself, though he hadn't hit anyone yet. Not good enough, at least, as they just continued attacking others. But he couldn't be bothered by them for too long: according to the plan, he had to be somewhere near the front of the troops at all times. He looked to his right for a split second and saw Scotland running a few metres ahead of him, stopping to aim at a German soldier and shoot the man, then continuing. England was shocked: Scotland had never been the type to kill. But then he saw the man he'd shot wasn't dead, but shot in the thigh to immobilise him. Now that was Scotland as he knew him, though he didn't want to think about what some people would do to a defenseless soldier like that one later...

Then, through the deafening explosions and exclamations, he suddenly heard a screech that sent shivers down his spine. Horrified, he looked to his left now, trying to find the person he knew that voice belonged to. And then when he did, he wished he had just continued following orders and not bothered to turn around. In the air was still the cloud of sand and dust that covered the beach everytime a mine exploded. He didn't want to see the mangled bodies and -parts, so he looked past them. And a little further down the beach lay America, curled up. England called out to him and ran towards him, shooting the two Germans who apparently thought of the wounded American as easy prey right now. One of them died, but he didn't even feel the usual stab of guilt and digust at his action as he quickly approached the young nation. He was alive and conscious, but the latter only barely. Someone else must've stepped on a mine close to him, England realised as he knelt down beside America. The ones that stepped on it didn't seem to stay in one piece. America had been able to shield his face with his arms, so nothing had hit him in the head at least. But his arms were cut and burnt. What really made England's stomach do a somersault were the two pieces of metal that had dug into his abdomen and stomach, seemingly very deep. "Dammit," England cursed loudly, though his words were drowned out by the noise around him. "Dammit, America! You -you utter _fool!_ Didn't I say we were needed down here? You can't just go and get hurt like this, you know!" Harsh as his words were, his voice was unstable and he held the young nation by the shoulders, shaking him just the slightest to get his attention.

America opened his eyes to slits, looking up at England with glassy eyes. "You don't have to yell... limey..." England sighed in relief, quickly looking up when he saw something from the corner of his eyes. And to make matters a million times worse now, he stared right into the icy blue eyes of Germany. The young nation had his gun pointed at England and America, finger on the trigger, but he didn't shoot. England didn't say a word, not even cussing despite the dire situation he and America were in now, and quickly reached for his own gun. But he didn't even have to pick it up. Germany lowered his own gun before England even had the chance to do anything, looking at America with horror in his eyes. Then he knelt down as well, sliding his arms under the American's knees and shoulders. England instinctively stopped him, but Germany only glared ay him. "Just trust me, idiot!" he said quickly before picking America up and running to a small cove in the cliffs close by, shielded from any bullets. England, who wasn't even sure what was going on, just followed him closely.

He got there just as Germany put America down again and started pulling the metal chunks out of his abdomen, eliciting a scream from the injured nation. Without even thinking, England pulled his small pistol -for he'd dropped his rifle in sheer haste- and held it against the side of Germany's head, who stopped moving immediately. "J-just what do you think you're d-doing?" England demanded angrily, trying so hard to sound confident but failing so miserably. Germany did a better job at remaining calm than him, or at least keeping up the facade. "Trying to save a fellow nation, obviously." England lowered the pistol at this, but didn't let go yet. Germany quickly pulled the last piece of metal out of America, then put pressure on the wound, though not for long as it was healing quickly now that it had the chance. England remained cautious, ready to defend himself and America if Germany tried anything, but just this seemed to anger the young blond nation. "Look!" he exclaimed, turning to look at England. "I'm just trying to help! I'm just as sick of this var as you are! I never vanted another var, not so soon after the previous one-" He stopped suddenly, averting his gaze, and for the first time in years, England saw the child Germany was still supposed to be by nation standards. He wasn't even a century old... there were _humans_ older than him. At that age, England himself had been little more than a toddler. And then he felt a stab of pity and also dismay as he tried to imagine Northern Ireland fighting in this war. After all, that wasn't too different from Germany fighting, except that the German had the physical age of a young adult, maybe someone in his late teens still..._ He's just a kid,_ he thought, horrified. _He's just a kid and he's fighting his second World War..._ But then Germany got up, grabbing his rifle and turning around to leave again.

"H-hey, kid!" England tried to catch his attention quicjly before he left. Germany looked over his shoulder, waiting for what England had to say. "T-thank you... and I'm sorry," the Brit stammered awkwardly. Germany just nodded. "That's okay... Just don't tell anyone about this. If anyone finds out I helped the enemy..." Fear flashed in his eyes for a moment, and that was the last England saw of him before he ran off into battle again. Stunned by what had just happened, he turned to America to help the younger nation, begging the skies to keep Scotland safe as well. This was their first step to saving Europe, saving the world even, but it was a hellish day indeed.

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><p>Near the end of the morning, hundreds of kilometres away in Belfast, Wales and Northern Ireland were talking softly when finally, Ireland came downstairs as well. Despite how long he'd stayed in bed, which was very unusual for him, he didn't look rested at all. In fact, he was paler than North could remember ever having seen him, and he didn't say much besides a quick 'goodmorning' and an apology to North for shouting at him that night. Wales eyed him carefully, greeted him as well and didn't say a word to him afterward. North had told him how Ireland had acted when the child had gone to him at night, and he wasn't exactly pleased, though he understood Ireland as well. North had just started telling him the details about his nightmare now that the memories of it weren't so fresh in his mind anymore, and when Wales saw how the boy looked up at him, he sighed and listened to the rest of it. "So you were all dead and I went to find the others and- I mean, I first found Allistair and he was cut and bruised and burnt all over. And his eyes were so scary! So when I realised he was dead, I went to search for Arthur, but when I found him he was on the ground, too. There was a deep gash across his abdomen and he'd bled to death. Then I found you and... and you were shot in the stomach, your back broken like a twig. And then I turned around and saw Cearul sitting in a chair. He had a cut on his wrist, right across the, uh, the big vein-"<p>

"Artery?"

"-that one. And in his other hand he held a blade, so I think he..." North then trailed off as he realised both his older brothers were staring at him wide-eyed. Ireland, especially, seemed horrified at the part about him, and he asked softly, "How... how do ye know all that, lad?"

North flinched at this, and he quickly demanded, "K_-know?_ I dreamt it! Y-you mean it was all real?" Wales shot his older brother an accusing glare, then answered carefully, "Well, what you described, Coineach, sounded a lot like what happened in the years before you were born. Allistair, when he came back from the warfront in the Great War, was indeed cut and bruised. His skin was a bit burnt by the poison gas as well at first, though that all healed before we got to see him. And what happened to his eyes is the reason he's wearing glasses now -the poison damaged them and rendered him blind for a year. But don't worry, he never actually stopped breathing or anything. And during one of the worst battles in the Great War, the damage it caused Arthur was so great, a deep gash formed on his abdomen and he... Well, he died. But Allistair managed to reanimate him before it was too late, and he's still with us and strong and healthy, so it's okay. And you know what happened to me. I was shot accidentally and broke my spine. A-as for Cearul..."

"I was depressed, lad," Ireland sighed, one hand already pressed against his forehead again and his eyes closed. He was having a bad headache again. "I was depressed and didn't really know what I was doing and I... I started cutting myself. It never got out o'hand to the point I could've killed myself -well, except... No, never mind." He shook his head, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, his jaws clenched. Then he looked at Wales through one eye and smiled. "If it hadn't been for my lil' brothers helping me back up, I have no idea what would've happened. But they really saved me from myself back in the day. I honestly believe they saved my life." Northern Ireland stared at him wide-eyed, then at Wales and back again. He'd heard about Scotland. He knew the story of what happened to Wales. But no one had ever told him England had actually died at one point, no one had ever said a word about Ireland's depression and cutting. So how could he have dreamt about it, and why?

"But we're all okay now, lad," Ireland reassured him as he got up from where he said. "So don't ye worry, okay?" North nodded silently and stared after him as he went into the kitchen. He was curious as to why he dreamt about it, but he wasn't worried about things that happened twenty or more years ago. He was more worried about Ireland _now,_ as the older nation grunted a bit, muttering complaints about the light being too bright (though it was still rather dim, North thought) and swayed just the tiniest bit as he walked.

He sighed and, the moment Ireland was out of earshot, turned to Wales and asked, "Do you know what's wrong with him? Aside from 'having constant headaches'..." Wales nodded, adjusting his wheelchair a bit so he could lean on the table with his elbows, then explained, "Those headaches are caused by his people. He's been having them for years, really, but being in Belfast makes them a lot worse. Some of his people never wanted to leave the United Kingdom-"

"Those are now my people," North interjected, but Wales shook his head.

"Aside from those in Ulster. There are more, spread across the entire Irish Republic, that still want to become a part of the UK again. And then there are those that want Ulster -you- to join and become one with the Republic. And of course, the people that are content with the way things are now. His people can't make up their minds about what they want, and he feels that. As for why it is worse in your territory than his own, I'm not sure, but it is. Especially after a longer period of time, like now." Northern Ireland remained silent for a little while, wondering why he didn't get a headache, too. His people thought the same, right? They wanted to seperate from the Uk or stay there, it was divided, just like in the Republic of Ireland. But maybe, he thought, it was less divided than there. Or maybe he was too young to pick up on those things yet. As a baby he hadn't felt the pain of the civil war, after all, feeling the damage done to his people and landmass came much later.

Ireland then came back with a glass of water and two small pills in his hands, asking casually, "What day is it, anyway? Can't seem to remember..." Wales stiffened at this and mumbled a quick "June 6", averting his gaze. All colour that was still hidden somewhere in Ireland's face now faded, and he looked pale as paper. Northern Ireland looked from Wales to Ireland, confused. "Ye gotta be kiddin' me, lad," Ireland breathed, eyes wide with horror. "Ye gotta be kiddin' -ah!" The glass he'd been holding slipped from his grasp and shattered on the ground, water splashing up against his feet and the table. "I-I'll go... clean that up..." he then mumbled turning around slowly, absent-mindedly almost. "_June 6... _bloody hell, no..." Wales quickly rolled away from where he sat at the table and over to Ireland's side, grabbing him by the wrist. The older nation only looked at him from over his shoulder, the same look of horror and shock in his pale eyes. "Cearul," Wales said calmly. "Brother, do me a favour and go back to bed. You haven't slept in days, I can tell. So please-"

"I can't, darn it," Ireland answered, shaking his head and pulling his arm free. "N-not when Arthur a-an' Allistair are... Bloody hell, Dylan, don't say such nonsense. I'm fine. Now move -_carefully_- so I can clean up the glass an' such." He then walked away to grab a few things in the kitchen, leaving Wales to sigh in defeat and roll back to sit beside his little brother. Immediately, North asked what was so special about today, but Wales wouldn't answer. Not before they'd had news about it, at least. So the child pouted a bit, annoyed. He knew it had something to do with the war, and though he'd been to a meeting, he wasn't allowed to know about what was going on today? It was unfair. He huffed, watching Ireland come back into the room, clean the glass and water away and then leave again to dispose of it. "So Cearul has been overworking himself lately?" he asked, just for the sake of talking about _something_. Wales laughed a bit and shook his head, answering, "Nah, more like over_worrying._ He'll be fine." He then looked away, adding silently, "I just hope Allistair and Arthur will be, too..."

"They will," North answered immediately, still unaware of what today would bring. "Of course they will. They're my brothers and they can survive anything. As they did before." But as he said this, fear overwhelmed him. Both his big brothers here seemed afraid of today, after all, and that couldn't mean anything good. He was worried sick now, afraid that his nightmare would come true in the end.

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><p><strong>So I thought it was time for a few things: North finding out about the horrible things that had happened to the family before his birth (as he was still under the illusion their lives had been just fine aside from a few things), Germany showing that he isn't evil (because he is not) and mentioning of the ever-lasting tensions between Unionists and Nationalists. They just never seem to stop...<br>**

**So yeah. I wrote it.**

**Within the next two chapters, I think, WWII is over in this story, and the next 'arc' can begin (and now my old school project about the Troubles comes in real handy... had to make a timeline and all that stuff)**

**Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it! and please leave a review~**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for another review, Crossfire!**

**By the way, I was planning on getting back into animating and all that, which was perhaps my greatest hobby before writing... and then I heard _Brothers_, sung by Vic Mignogna, today and it just _screamed_ Rising to me. So perhaps, some day in the future, I might post a link to a video with that song...? We'll see.**

**Here's chapter 9 of Trouble:**

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><p><em>Everything went alright,<em> England wrote one evening, after most battle was over for now and the troops had set up camp close the the French shore safely. He sighed before continuing to write. What should he say? Too much detail would only worry his brothers, too little would make them think he was hiding something -leading them to worry even more. Not only that, his mind was practically on hold right now: after everything that had happened the last few days, he was more exhausted than he could remember ever having been. But he had promised to write to his brothers back home as soon as he got the chance, so they would know he was okay still. If he didn't write them, he could just about imagine the three of them finding their way here to check on him and Scotland themselves. Especially Ireland, judging by how tense he'd been just before his two younger brothers left for the war again, might very well hop onto the first military plane he could get his hands on, then crash into the sea as he didn't know how to fly one. Either that, or he'd find a way to sprout his own wings and fly across the sea to France -getting lost and landing in Portugal instead, being without navigation. So writing a letter, however hard it was to him now, was an absolute must.

_The plan worked splendidly. There were many casualties, though. Not nearly enough to cripple our troops, don't worry -but too many still. Every death is one too many, after all._  
><em>Me and Allistair... we're doing just fine. Some scratches, some bruises, but mostly just tired. I am worried about Matthew, however -he wasn't on the same beach as us, and I haven't heard from him yet. It should be soon, but I sincerely hope that boy is alright.<em>  
><em>I really haven't much to say now, except that I could fall asleep as I'm writing this, so I will keep it short for now. Maybe, when I've rested a bit, I'll write more. Or else Allistair will, I'm sure.<em>

_Take care, all of you. We'll be home soon. The war can't last much longer now._

_-Arthur_

_P.S. Germany won't be an issue anymore._

He read the letter again, decided he was satisfied with it, then folded it neatly and put it in an envelope, glad to be done for the day. He was ready to sleep now... but he couldn't, not quite yet. With a stab of worry in his heart, he turned to America, who was asleep. England had decided he'd stay with America at all times until he'd fully recovered. The only reason he wasn't in an infirmary was because humans could never help him. His injuries hadn't fully healed yet, and since the American troops had suffered the most casualties, they wouldn't for the next two days at least. At least the deep cuts in his stomach and abdomen were closed now, so he wasn't really in danger anymore. Still, England knelt down beside him and gently grabbed one of his hands, which were both covered in bandages. The burns on his fingers and palms hadn't healed yet, but those on the rest of his arms had by now, which was a relief. He would be fine again soon, given he could rest properly. Eventually, the Englishman sighed and got up again, whispering a soft 'sleep well' to the young nation, the lay down on his own bed, still staring at the other nation for a little while. "You're far too young for war, kid," he sighed after a minute or so, closing his eyes. And much against his will, he once again saw images of Germany on the battlefield. If anyone was still a child, too young for battle, it was him. He could only hope -for himself, his brothers and that poor boy- that this war wouldn't last long anymore.

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><p>Wales sat in his wheelchair between the dinnertable and the couch, which had been moved close to each other the evening before for this one purpose. He had one hand on each piece of furniture as he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Northern Ireland sat on the couch, watching him carefully. The Welshman was somewhere between excited and downright terrified, and for a moment, he wondered if he shouldn't wait for Ireland to be done with his paperwork (the older nation was practically being drowned in it by his government lately) before he would try this, but excitement got the upperhand eventually. And so, he took another deep breath and got up very slowly and with a lot of difficulty. He supported most of his weight with his arms, but even so, he was standing for the first time in twenty-three years, and it felt amazing. For a moment, he just couldn't believe it himself, and apparently neither could North, as he was just staring at his older brother with wide but expressionless eyes. Then, a second later, he smiled wide and started clapping. Wales, too, just couldn't <em>not <em>smile. _His feet were on the ground. He was standing._ Now, if only he could depend on his arms a little less... But the moment he relaxed his arms even the slightest bit, his weakened legs couldn't support him anymore and he was on the floor within a second, only just able to break his fall in time.

"Dylan!" North immediately exclaimed, leaning over the back of the couch and looking down at him. "Are you okay?" He didn't wait for an answer, jumping off the couch, running around the corner of it and kneeling down in front of his big brother, ready to help him up. Wales groaned a bit, both in disappointment and pain as his elbows had caught most of the impact. He then nodded silently and sat up, looking over his shoulder at his wheelchair. He would get in it again, then out of it and just try again. Try again was all he could. He forced a smile when he saw North's worried gaze, though smiling was about the last thing he felt like doing. "I'm okay, Coineach, really. I could hardly expect the first time up on my feet in two decades to be longer than this, now could I?" Without waiting for a reply from the child, he turned a bit and heaved himself back into his wheelchair, the blasted thing. Now that he could move his legs again completely, he couldn't wait for the day he could get rid of it for good. But if regaining movement had taken him years already from the first moment he started regaining _sense..._ He wasn't sure he would learn to walk again before the end of this decade. He sighed and mumbled softly, "But if I'm going to try again, I really need Cearul here..."

North got up again too, staring at his older brother with his pale emerald eyes, his head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed a bit. "Why Cearul? If it is to support you so you won't fall again, I can help instead. He's busy... _again._" But Wales shook his head, earning a soft mutter from the child which he didn't pay attention to. "You're not exactly tall enough yet, and I think not strong enough, either. I mean, I'm not exactly heavy, but you cannot support my full weight yet if I fall. And Cearul is _too_ busy lately -and as am I, mind you. I'm just doing this now to get my mind off things, and he should take a break, too. So if you'd let me through now, please..." North hesitated for a moment, then let his shoulders hang and stepped aside so Wales could get out from between the table and couch and into the hallway.

Once in the hallway, Wales took a moment to think about how numb he actually felt. He'd been happy to be able to get up again after so many years, but for not even a second he'd felt the joy he thought he would. And by now, it had faded again completely, and he was simply... numb. But so much had happened the past years, he really didn't think it strange. His life had been thrown upside down in a matter of weeks and hadn't been right again for four years. He'd been away from his home for a long time already, and after the bombings had ended he'd been in Cardiff for a few months in total, then going back to Dublin or Belfast. He just wished it could all be normal again... He shook his head, trying not to think about any of that now. It was exactly what he wanted to avoid thinking of, after all, and here he was doing it _again._ He looked to his right, where the door to Ireland's makeshift study was (originally it was the room Wales now used as a bedroom -he was now stuck in a 3 by 2 metres room where his desk barely fit), surprised at seeing it was open. Just to be sure, he looked around the corner to see if Ireland was in, but only the massive stacks of paper were on the desk, with their owner nowhere to be found. He turned around, confused, and went in the opposite direction. Then, when he passed the door to the bathroom, he heard a vaguely familiar sound, and he stopped. "Oh, dear god..." he sighed, listening for a moment to the sound of his brother, undoubtedly throwing up. "Now how did he manage-? Cearul!" He knocked on the door for a moment, but there came no answer. "Cearul? Unlock the door, please, I'm coming in whether you like it or not." There was a faint mutter and then the click of the lock turning, and without wasting a second, Wales rolled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him again. Northern Ireland didn't have to come here now, too.

For Ireland was as pale as the white tiles on the floor as he was leaning on the toilet, still gasping for breath, his blue eyes dull as he looked up at Wales. "W-what is it, Dylan...?" he asked, his voice rasping and fairly weak. "As you can see, I'm r-rather busy here..." Wales sighed and got a bit closer to him, inspecting him carefully. "Oh, Cearul... I knew you should've gone back to Dublin sooner-"

"I know, I know!" Ireland interrupted him, sounding angry. "I know very well, Dylan. 'I told you so Cearul! If only you'd listened to me!' But I was a stupid, stubborn arse, wasn't I? I didn't listen, I stayed here with the two of you and now I suffer the consequences. H-happy...?" He was barely done speaking before leaning back over the toilet and throwing up again. Wales just flinched at his words, relaxing again when he saw his brother like this, feeling a stab of pity for him. And to think, barely fifteen minutes ago he'd been impatiently waiting for Ireland to help him try to walk like he'd promised he would. When Ireland gasped for breath again, moaning in complete discomfort and curling up a little, the younger nation said softly, "Cearul, I didn't mean that..." Ireland just shook his head, waiting until he'd caught his breath again before answering, "I know... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's just..." He trailed off for a moment, then went on. "Well, if there's a fissure in my skull at this point, it wouldn't surprise me... My people are damn well torturing me and they don't even know it."

"B-but... Surely this isn't all because of-?"

Ireland shook his head before Wales could even finish. "No, no, of course not... But combine that with a stack of paperwork that, no matter how much I work, only seems to keep on growing, two brothers fighting what is probably the greatest, most dangerous war in the history of mankind and the IRA-" He stopped, averting his gaze quickly -a little too quickly, as a few seconds later, he was vomitting again. Wales narrowed his eyes and, when Ireland was finished, answered softly, "The Northern Campaign." He might as well have punched his brother in the gut now, the reaction Ireland had would've been the same either way. "Y-you know about that?" he asked hoarsely, staring up at Wales with panic in his blue eyes. Wales nodded calmly, not showing any frustration or anger -he knew Ireland had nothing to do with it, and he didn't want his big brother to think he blamed him, especially not now. "I do, and so does my government-" Ireland seemed to get even paler, though Wales doubted that was even possible. "-and _no_, Coineach doesn't know. He knows about some of the attacks, but unless he's connected them, there's no way he knows about it. And I'm very well aware that you have nothing to do with it, brother, don't worry. I'm not accusing you of anything." He then tore his gaze away from Ireland and looked at the opposite wall instead, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly before adding, "But you seriously need to go back to Dublin. It will work against the headaches, at least. You'll feel better again in no-time."

Ireland laughed dryly, giving Wales a look that clearly asked if he was crazy. "And just how do you think I'm going to get to Dublin like this? It's hours away, and I doubt I'll even make it out of Belfast in that car right now... I can't drive like this. Dylan, you were right. I should've gone sooner, 'cause now I'm stuck here and it will only get worse with the day. I was stupid..." Wales thought silently for a moment. No, if Ireland were to drive now, he would defy the laws of nature and die before they even crossed the border. Or, maybe not exactly _that_, but... Then, suddenly, the answer hit him. "I'll drive," he declared, looking down at Ireland and directly into the older nations eyes, so he would see he wasn't bluffing. "I can drive you there, Cearul, don't worry. I know my legs are too weak to stand on, but driving a car... I think I can manage that. And if not all at once, then I can manage that distance with regular breaks. Which, judging by how you look, whe would have to take, anyway." This time, Ireland only looked at him in slight... well, horror was the only word Wales could think of to describe it.

"Lad, you haven't driven a car in over-"

"-Twenty-three years. I know."

At this, Ireland promptly threw up again, and this time, Wales guessed the prospect of getting into a car that was driven by his cripple little brother who had no experience driving a car for the past two decades was the main reason. The Welshman just shrugged. "Well, it's either me or someone in the government, and you know they don't like playing taxi driver for us. God knows I know..." Ireland nodded, after which he silently waited for something. When he was sure he wouldn't throw up anymore, apparently, he flushed and slowly got up, swaying a little. "Well... thank you, lad. Now I better get back to- No, help you with-"

But Wales stopped him, holding him firmly by the wrist as he looked up at him sternly with narrowed eyes. "The only thing you need to do, Cearul, is go back to bed -no, the couch, I'm not letting you walk up the stairs in this state- and get some much-needed rest. Tomorrow morning we'll head to Dublin. Just keep hanging in there until then." He then released him, but Ireland didn't move an inch. It wasn't until his little brother said his name that the Irishman drew in a shaky breath -making Wales wonder if he'd been holding it all that time- and whispered hoarsely, "B-but Coineach... that boy can't come to Dublin. I-if he finds out about the I-IRA's recent actions... Dylan, he'll think _I _had something to do with it, a-and he... he'll hate me for sure. He can't know, Dylan, no matter what. _He must not know._"

"Taking him to Dublin won't change his chances of finding out, Cearul," Wales reassured him, feeling yet another stab of pity for his brother. The two Irish nations weren't exactly on good terms lately, anyway, and he sincerely hoped it wouldn't get any worse anytime soon. North deserved better than fighting with who he thought was his oldest brother, and the last thing Ireland needed now was to have his son hating him for something he didn't do. Not to mention Wales, and the other members of Great Britain for that matter, were all sick of the neverending battle within the family. But he shrugged those thoughts off. "Now go lie down, brother," he told Ireland. "I'll tell Coineach you're sick, you don't have to bother explaining all this to him. Then, I guess, I'll take him out for a stroll in the city or something, so you can get a proper rest. Okay? And about Allistair and Arthur... I'm sure they're okay. I have this feeling we'll hear from them soon, you'll see. Don't worry, they're fine." Ireland nodded slowly, then headed out of the bathroom, followed closely by his younger brother.

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><p>Northern Ireland didn't really know what to think as he was walking through his capital with Wales beside him. He'd known about Ireland's ever declining condition for a while now, but he'd never bothered to say anything. The older nation was a stubborn jackass sometimes, and he really had this coming for not listening to Wales sooner. But the Welshman had explained to North that Ireland had only stayed here for the child's sake, though he had indeed been rather stupid. North had only huffed, thinking about how long he'd wanted to leave Belfast already and staying here had <em>not<em> been for his sake. But had he ever told anyone that being in his capital was about the worst thing ever if Ireland was there, too, except for Scotland? No. So on that matter, he had been stubborn as well. But it did not change the fact he was angry with Ireland. And he was angry with Wales, too. He only wanted to see England and Scotland again, that was all he wanted, but they wouldn't even tell him what they were doing right now, except that they were in France. They'd made him feel awful day in and day out, and they deserved to feel just as awful for that.

"I hate you," he mumbled softly, at first not even aware that he'd said it out loud, only realising that when Wales stopped suddenly and stared at him wide-eyed. "Wh-what did you-?" he stammered, and North was silent for a moment, shocked that he'd actually said this. Then he got tense, glaring at his brother. "I said I hate you! You and Cearul! You're keeping so many secrets from me, you hurt me all the time! You don't care about me at all, do you?! I don't care about you anymore, either! I hate you!" He spun around before Wales could say a word, ready to run away and leave Wales behind there in the streets of Belfast, but he saw someone in a flash, very close to him, lifting something- and then everything went black for a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he lay on the pavement and he heard the sound of a fight. Startled, he looked up quickly, seeing a large man towering above Wales, holding a knife to the nation's throat as he was yelling at him. Wales, seemingly not scared at all, answered with rage edging his voice. "First of all, I _have no valuable stuff _with me! Second, how can you be such a coward, attacking a child and a cripple! Why not be a man and attack someone your own size and strength?"

"Shut up!" the man roared, slashing open Wales' cheek with his knife, then digging the point of it into his throat again after that. "Just give me your money, your watch, just anything! Give it to me right now or-!" He stopped suddenly, and North, who was just getting a little less dizzy now, immediately saw why: the deep cut on Wales' cheek was beginning to heal already. Taking advantage of the human's moment of distraction, Wales grabbed him by the wrist and swatted his arms away from himself, not minding at all that the knife left a scratch on his throat, then twisted the man's arm until he dropped the weapon and even further -until a loud crack echoed through the otherwise empty street and the man yowled in pain. Northern Ireland felt as though he was frozen where he sat, staring at the scene. He'd never seen Wales fight before, not like this, and he most definitely had never seen him this enraged. The older nation punched the man in the face, causing him to lose his balance and fall, Wales dragging him to his side to fall beside the nation's wheelchair. The blond nation then pulled something North had only seen few times before in his brother's possession, and hadn't known for one second he'd taken with him -a gun. Wales held it to the human's head, who, once he opened his eyes again, looked up at the nation in pure terror. "Get away from here right now," Wales hissed at the man. "And if you try _anything_ to hurt my little brother over there, I swear _I'll fucking kill you._" The human quickly stumbled to his feet, staring at Wales for a moment, noticing with complete horror that every cut on the nation's body had healed by now, then looked at Northern Ireland, who was still on the ground. Then, suddenly, a deafening bang sounded, and Wales' gun emitted smoke as the nation glared bloody murder at the man. "GET AWAY FROM HIM!" The man, after this warning shot, wasted not a second to run away as quickly as he could.

Northern Ireland could only stare at his older brother in shock and fear, as Wales quickly put his gun away again and got closer to his little brother, holding out one hand to him. "Coineach," he began, his voice suddenly so different from what it had been a few seconds ago. "Are you alright? He hit you with that brick over there." At the last part, he nodded to a brick lying a metre away from the young nation, blood along one of the edges. But North's wound, too, seemed to have healed already now. The child didn't answer, only took his brother's hand and got to his feet again, staring at Wales with the same look of horror. Realisation slowly seeped into his mind, and he stopped breathing for a moment. He'd just declared his hatred for this man, the one that was inspecting him frantically to see if his wound had indeed healed, his green eyes only asking the same question he'd just spoken to his little brother. And for a moment, he could only think that 'I hate you' might have been the last thing he'd ever said to his dear big brother if things had gone any differently. If they had been human, it would have been. That brick to his head had been a killing blow, and if that hadn't been, then Wales would be dead by now. Tears flooded his eyes, and he'd climbed onto his brother's lap in a heartbeat, clinging to him and crying against his shoulder. He tried to speak, to say he was sorry, but he couldn't. But it was enough that Wales hugged him back and whispered to him that everything was okay, that he knew the child didn't hate him and that he'd _never_ hate North for anything. He loved his little brother dearly and nothing would ever change that.

The two then went on their way home again, North still curled up on his brother's lap and sniffling as he tried to stop himself from crying. He was such a selfish little brat sometimes, he scolded himself. Just because he was unhappy right now -and who could blame him in his situation- he'd dared say he hated his brothers and that they didn't care about him. And almost as if someone had wanted to prove to him they did, _this_ had happened right away. And he knew now, that his brothers cared more about him then their own lives, and everything they did the last few years, _everything, _had been for him.

And when they got home, a letter was waiting for them in the mailbox. Finally they had news from England and Scotland, and everything was alright. Everything was alright.

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><p><strong>Don't underestimate Dylan. Not even in a wheelchair.<strong>

**Well, as for Northern Ireland... all the stress is just really getting to him, and in his case, that means he gets angry with everyone and everything for no apparent reason at all.**

**Well, thanks for reading and (as I have spring holidays now) the next chapter might not take a whole week! And please leave a review, even if it's just a wee one~ (I love that word... 'wee'. It's so cute sounding and all!)**


	10. Chapter 10

**And with this chapter, World War II comes to an end in Trouble. Yesterday I went to this amazing musical, Soldier of Orange, which was also about WWII... and it was just so beautiful. I actually became quite good at remembering dates and years when it comes to history, so when I went there with my family I had all these dates in my head like 'this battle was from then to then and resulted in this and that' and so on. But I sat down, the musical started, and I just forgot everything. History became so much more than just dates of events for a few hours. It was truly amazing.**

**If it was in any other language than Dutch, I would definitely recommend it, but... it's only in Dutch and only in one theater in the Netherlands, which was specially built for that musical, so that's not an option...**

**Well, that was my rambling for now. Crossfire, you just never cease to be amazing. Thank you for the review!**

***Warning: a lot of things happen in this chapter, so don't get confused. It might be a little bit messy. I'm sorry for that.***

**And now, without further ado...**

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><p>It wasn't until nearly a year later that Scotland and England returned home after a succesful invasion in Germany. And they didn't return alone. America was fighting Japan on the other side of the world, Canada was busy with his attempt to liberate the Netherlands. The one that the two British brothers took back with them was none other than Germany himself, battered and bruised from battle. He was even hardly conscious most of the time, but even so, he was kept in a cell by the government, who only rarely allowed any of the British nations to talk to him, even after they had explained the situation to them in full detail. "A nation is his people," England had said, clearly angry at the harsh treatment of the younger nation, even if he <em>was<em> a prisoner. "Not his leader. And I know he may not look like it, but by our standards, he's still a kid. Hell, if such a thing existed back in the 1st century, I'd have still been in diapers at his age! At least treat him humanely, especially with what's yet to come." Then, after about a week, Scotland was allowed to stay with him for about an hour to tell him some bad news -Prussia had been defeated in battle, his capital, Königsberg, captured by the Soviet Union. Germany had only asked him if his brother was still alright or not, and Scotland hadn't been sure how to answer that. "I haven't heard anything about his death," he eventually told the prisoner. "So Russia didn't get to him. He's alive, Ludwig, though I'm not sure in what condition. But seein' as his capital was destroyed... probably not too good." After that, the German hadn't said a word anymore, though his eyes spoke more than words ever could. A silent wish for the war to be over, a desperate plea to be reunited with the brother that had raised him, the only family he knew.

Northern Ireland had tried to talk to him, but Germany hadn't even looked at him yet. But even despite this cold attitude, which was probably meant to be somewhat intimidating, North wasn't scared of him one bit. If anything, he felt sorry for the young nation. Germany was only fifty years older than himself, and though he could've been his grandfather if they had been human, being what they were they were practically of the same age. And looking at Germany now, Northern Ireland finally understood why his brothers hadn't wanted him to have anything to do with the war -for this is what it did to a nation his age. Germany had grown up way too quickly, and though he looked to be no more than nineteen at the utmost, that was still almost a decade too old for his actual age. He was wounded and weary, but most of all he was broken, inside and outside. And it was after he'd seen this that Northern Ireland decided to for once follow Ireland's example and pray, thanking the Lord and everything he could imagine that he had been spared from fighting in this war.

At the end of April, late at night, Scotland, Wales and England were on their way to Germany's cell again, and North had insisted on coming with them. Ireland was in Dublin, and North felt nothing for staying home alone all night. Because after hearing what his big brothers were about to tell Germany now, he just felt he needed to be there, too. Germany lay on his side, back turned to the bars of his cell, but the four brothers could easily tell he was wide-awake. "Ludwig," Scotland said softly, the only one in the family to adress the nation by his human name. "Ludwig, please get o'er here fer a minute, we have some important news fer ye." But the nation only sat up and looked up at the four others. "Is it about Gilbert?" he asked immediately, the first time North heard him speak, but Scotland shook his head. Germany narrowed his eyes at this, clearly frustrated and afraid, as he hadn't heard a word from his older brother since the fall of Königsberg, silently listening to what the Brits had to say. North noticed he was probably aware of it already: he had his left hand pressed to his heart as if to put pressure on a sore spot. "We've just gotten word from the front... the Soviets have reached Berlin and are ready to attack. Yer capital will get bombed, yer people will be slaughtered, an' the war will be lost. I just want ye to prepare fer it: the first time is always the hardest, but ye'll make it."

"I've lost a Vorld Var before," Germany huffed, though North noticed immediately that he was only acting cocky to mask his fear. England nodded. "I know, kid, but this is different. I felt what it is like to have your capital destroyed like your brother's was and like yours will be within days from now. It feels as if your heart get ripped from your chest, put back in and ripped away all over again. We just want you to know it is going to happen, so you'll be prepared for it." At that point, Germany jumped to his feet and stared at the older- and younger nations. "You mean it vill get vorse?" he asked, sounding terrified for once. "I-it's like I've been having a heart attack all night already! It... it vill get _vorse?_" England only gave a sad nod and sighed, telling him softly that it would get much worse yet. Germany flinched and took a step back, his eyes wide. "T-then _Bruder... Bruder..._ he..." Suddenly, Scotland tore away from the group and wordlessly marched off into the dark hallway, being stared after by the four other nations for a moment before Wales turned back to Germany and wished him good luck with what was soon to come.

"I've always wanted to meet you, you know," North blurted out out of nowhere, for reasons he didn't even know himself. Probably he was trying to change the subject, get the imprisoned nation's mind off the current situation for as long as he could. "Allistair always told really cool stories about you and your, er... your _Bruder_. He told me the two of you were strong and proud nations, and also really wonderful people once you get to know the both of you a little. I've really always wanted to meet you."

"Vell, I'm sorry for not being like your mental image of me," Germany answered, a hint of dry laughter in his voice, but also a hint of pain. But North shook his head an told him that he was _exactly _like the child had thought he was, and that he wasn't disappointed, and was very glad to have met Germany. Though the circumstances would have been different the way he'd envisioned their first meeting. Germany was silent for a moment, but then something like a smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded.

Soon after that, Scotland returned, holding a key in one hand. Wales stared at him wide-eyed as he put the key in the lock of Germany's celldoor, asking him what the hell he was doing, but Scotland didn't pay any attention. He just opened the door, went inside and closed it again. Germany looked just as shocked as the others when Scotland suddenly stood in front of him and put one hand on the young nation's shoulder. "I will... _Ich werde dich nun nicht allein lassen_. Not with the bombings starting soon." The Scot's brothers and their prisoner all stared at him in utter confusion, the Brits because they didn't speak a word German and hadn't known Scotland had started learning it, Germany because this was about the last thing he'd expected to hear. "_D-danke... Schot-_Allistair..." Scotland then turned to his younger brothers, his pale blue eyes filled with a kind of warmth Northern Ireland had never seen before. "You four go home now. I'm staying with him, but you should really go home again: it's late and... and you don't want to see this."

England and Wales both nodded, but North only kept staring at his older brother, not really understanding any of this anymore. He jumped in shock when England grabbed his hand and pulled him along, quickly called 'good luck' to Germany and a short goodbye to Scotland, allowing his older brother to take him home again after that. Perhaps he was just tired, but near the end of their visit, he just couldn't comprehend what was going on exactly anymore. He just wished the two nations in that cell would be alright the next time he saw them.

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><p>But one of them wasn't. The next morning, an exhausted Scotland came home, telling them Germany had passed out sometime that night and hadn't woken up since. He had actually wanted to stay there, but he hadn't slept all night and just had to get some rest -there were always two humans watching Germany now, and they would let the British brothers know if his condition changed, be it for the better or the worse. They would, under no circumstances, allow a fellow nation to die right under their noses. But the last days of April passed and May came, and the young nation had only been awake for a total of two days at most, his wounds only increasing in number and severity. On 2 May, the attacks on Berlin stopped, the city was captured, and Germany had to be transferred to a hospital by that time, his wounds so severe they could kill him if left untreated. Many humans working at the hospital were against they idea of treating who they had thought of as the UK's number one enemy for years, but after the four nations kept insisting they look after him, they obliged. The surgent tasked with fixing him up was the same one usually asigned to looking after any of the four members of the United Kingdom if any of them ever needed medical attention: he had studied the biology of nations from the start of his career and was without a doubt the most experienced person on that particular field in all of Great Britain. Especially working with Wales the past few years had given him experience none of his predecessors through the ages had ever had, and so the brothers trusted him blindly. They knew for sure they wouldn't have to worry about Germany for one second.<p>

And they didn't worry anymore at all for the first time in years: Hitler was dead, the German capital captured and the Allied Forces were winning more and more battles. It was only a matter of days now before the war would finally be over. The only one to not be in the mood for celebration already was Scotland, who was checking the mailbox several times a day: they had gotten word about the fall of Berlin practically the moment it happened, they had heard about Königsberg weeks before -so why not about Prussia? Because despite the years of war, to Scotland, the Prussian was still a good friend, and he wanted to know how he was doing. This, England and Wales guessed, was probably also the reason he had wanted to look after Germany so badly -if he couldn't help his friend, then he would at least make sure his friend's brother would be okay.

On 6 May, Canada came to London as well before he would return to his homeland soon after, only a day after he liberated the Netherlands. "I've never seen people more grateful for soldiers' presence than the Dutch yesterday," he told the Brits, tired but beyond happy. "They gave us tons and tons of tulips -which is practically all they have. I take it you heard about the famine last winter? They were forced to eat tulip bulbs because there just wasn't anything else, so to me at least, it really felt like, well... it was such beautiful symbolism!" He kept on talking for a long while, telling his 'uncles' about pretty much everything he'd experienced the day he saved a fellow nation's life. Northern Ireland listened in sheer wonder, not even asking any questions, just trying his best to imagine everything as Canada spoke. "Netherlands doesn't really show much emotion," the Canadian went on. "But yesterday, when he walked up to me, he just - tears in his eyes, smiling and- I can't even describe it. He said he owes me his life... no one has ever said anything like that to me before. And his people, when we left yesterday... they have painted a thank-you message on their rooftops. It was amazing." He kept on talking for so long, he ended up repeating the same story a few times. But none of the others stopped him. It was good news, and that was something they hadn't had in much too long, and they loved every word of it.

It wasn't until 8 May that they official, unconditional surrender of the Germans was signed, and by then, the Second World War finally came to an end -though only in Europe. America still continued in his battle against Japan, the last of the Axis to still stand. But he, too, was losing, so it was a matter of time before the war would be over entirely.

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><p>A week after the German surrender, the United Kingdom had the pleasure of reuniting Germany and Prussia, who were both still weak from the great loss, but at that moment didn't seem to care about that for even a second. The moment he saw his little brother, Prussia ran towards him, limping a little but fast nonetheless, and practically jumped on him. He hugged him so tightly, the Brits almost worried all their hard work in keeping the young nation alive the past weeks had been for nothing, but his grip slackened within seconds. "<em>Zwei Jahre, Ludwig!<em>" he said, and judging by his voice he was having a hard time keeping his emotions under control. "_Fast zwei verdammte Jahre habe ich dich nicht gesehen!_ Dammit, little brother, don't you ever-!"

In a shocked whisper, Scotland translated to his brothers that the two Germans hadn't seen each other in nearly two years, which was longer than any of them had ever imagined -Wales had the closest estimation of nearly ten months or longer. They themselves had been seperated for nearly as long, of course, but at least they'd never been truly alone. North watched in silence as Prussia inspected his little brother thoroughly, apparently having to see for himself whether or not he was really okay. "V-vell, damn!" he said eventually, his voice somewhere between laughing and crying. "Y-you're actually taller than me now! Vho vould have thought... my little brother isn't my little brother anymore! I... vell, dammit... _I-ich liebe dich, Ludwig..._" Germany didn't say anything. He just hugged his older brother again, refusing to let go anymore. They may have lost the war, but at least they had each other again after months of seperation and uncertainty. And quietly, the Brits went on their way back to their plane, returning home without so much as a goodbye or anything. Neither of them had been willing to interrupt this reunion. Germany and Prussia, despite all they had done, deserved it more than anyone.

* * *

><p>After that came celebration. After a terrible six years, the war that had terrorised everyone in Europe was now finally over. And at the start of August that year, the USA dealt two decisive blows to Japan -bombing Hiroshima and Nagasaki, completely destroying both cities. On 15 August, Japan surrendered, ending the war definitively. That afternoon, England got a call from a very nervous sounding America. "But Alfred, you just ended the most terrible war in the history of mankind!" the Englishman had exclaimed when he heard how on edge the younger nation sounded. "Believe it or not, kid, I'm actually proud of you right now! Very proud, even." But with what America told him next, he turned as pale as a piece of paper, his emerald eyes filled with pure horror as he listened. His three brothers watched him in silence, waiting for the moment he'd put the phone down and tell them what was going on, which came after a few minutes of silence and a quiet 'o-okay' and 'you... you foolish-'. Pale as a corpse and his eyes wide, he turned to his brothers and opened his mouth to speak. It took a little while longer for his voice to join in the effort as well, but when it did, he shocked his brothers almost as much as he himself was. "T-the bombs he used on those cities... n-nucleair bombs? Such a weapon must <em>never be used again<em>. Each one killed thousands of people, destroyed an entire city -_one bomb!_- a-and Japan is... J-Japan has been in a coma for nine days, ever since the first bomb, and his condition is still critical... He could die any moment. Those weapons may never be used again, it could destroy the world and kill any nation on this planet... Never again..." He then walked away, still muttering things to himself, and locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, not answering when any of his brothers tried to talk to him. And they understood: Japan and England had been good friends for a long time. Back when the whole world was against England, Japan had been the only one outside the family to even be willing to talk to him, and the other way around. And though their friendship had faded over the years, their bond remained a special one. He probably couldn't stand the thought of losing him any more than he would his brothers.

The mood darkened after this news, and the brothers didn't celebrate their victory anymore. Without complaining and without much enthusiasm either, England got to his paperwork that came with the ending of a war. All points that would one day be discussed in a treaty, punishments for the ones to have caused it and all such things. Wales, now having the time to actually do so properly, had gone back to Cardiff for professional revalidation so he would walk again soon. Scotland, finally feeling the effects of the many people he lost, had gone back home to get some rest, and Northern Ireland had gone with him. The Scot had lost a greater percentage of his people than his little brothers had, and it had gotten him quite sick. North didn't really understand that part, though. "I thought our health was linked to our economy," he asked one afternoon. "Not our people. So how can you get sick from loss of people?"

"Do ye know what different parts of our body represents, laddie?" Scotland asked him, not answering the question at all. Though confused, the child just answered with everything he knew about it -which was pretty much everything. "Our body is the land," he said, staring at Scotland as though to ask if he was right or not. "Our heart is our capital. The brain is pretty much the government and the opinions of people -and with political troubles we can get terrible headaches, as seen in Ireland a little while ago. Several organs represent... major cities?" Scotland nodded, though he added that wasn't always the case. "And our people are represented by... uh..."

"By our blood, Coineach," Scotland answered for him, patting his little brother on the shoulder. "Our people are our blood. Unimportant at first glance, but it is what keeps everything else running. Just as humans cannot live with too little blood in their veins, we cannot live without our people. Losing so many over such a short period of time gives the same effects as bloodloss -tiredness, weakness in limbs, dizziness, ye name it. It'll be over in the blink of an eye, trust me, but for now... For now, I just need to rest. Aye? No need to worry." And, reassured, Northern Ireland didn't worry anymore. There wasn't any reason to celebrate and be happy like his people, but he wouldn't be sad or angry or scared anymore, either. For the first time in years, he was happy again.

* * *

><p>After that came a period in which it seemed Northern Ireland just didn't get any older anymore, he just remained the same age he had been when the war ended -roughly nine, perhaps a small ten-year-old. Whenever he was in Belfast, a plan his brothers had had from even before the war started, was put into practice: North was sent to a school. For four days a week he would be there, learning more English and Irish, maths, geography and history. All the other subjects, the government had decided, weren't important for him to learn now, so he wasn't allowed to 'waste time' on those, but he didn't even mind that. After his first week there, it became clear that he excelled in English and history, though his Irish (much to Ireland's silent dismay) was a little behind that of his 'peers'. He didn't particularly like maths, either, as he had to learn things he'd never even seen before, and when he asked his older brothers for help, they just read through some of the exercises he had to do, laughed nervously and put it down again, never to speak of it again. So, North decided, maths wasn't something a nation had to know per se. It wasn't important, so he wouldn't 'waste time' on it, as his government put it. They weren't so keen on that idea, however, claiming that maths was also the basics of economics, which he would learn later on and was crucial for a nation.<p>

He didn't dislike school, but he didn't love it either. What he hated, however, was that his government always knew how to find him, even if he silently went off with Scotland or Wales or Ireland or England and stayed with them. They would always find him and, though no one ever complained about him being in another country, they never failed to send him his homework with some extra notes as he'd missed the explanation for some lessons. It was easier and thus more fun to work on than the paperwork he'd helped his brothers with sometimes, but it wasn't something he liked doing.

One day, when the whole family got together for a few days to spend some time away from work and stress (they weren't allowed to call it a holiday, as they had simply gone into the Scottish highlands without telling the governments a thing), Northern Ireland had started complaining to his brothers that _they_ had never gone to school, either, and it wasn't fair that _he_ had to go. "But when we were yer age," Scotland said, roasting a rabbit he had caught that morning above the campfire he'd made. "_This_ was all we had to learn. Catch yer meat, skin it, remove the bones an' roast it. Plant some seeds and watch it grow, learn to determine when ye can harvest yer food an' learn to clean it so't won't kill ye. Somethin' called _survival_." Wales nodded, adding: "Allistair taught me how to talk and walk and all those things, but his language lessons didn't exactly stick: I just went and created Welsh instead of speaking Scottish." Then England put in something, too. "I was lucky to have been taken in by some farmers down in a village after I was born, and that's where I learned those basics. Of course, then they realised I wasn't human and they started shunning me. Around the time they threw me out, the Romans came and killed them all... and when they couldn't kill me, they brought me to my father, the only other immortal they had ever seen. It wasn't exactly a nice time, but I learned to speak, count, write and fight with things other than a bow and arrow then. Though I ended up speaking more Latin than my own language, which wasn't exactly... ah, well."

"And I spent some years in a monastery," Ireland said, looking up at the dark sky above. "Also learned to write and read there. And of course, I still know some of the daily preaches given there by heart... things like that tend to happen when you've heard the same thing for years and years on end."

"An' they ruined ye, Old Man!" Scotland interrupted him. "Yer still wearing that bloody rosary, still pray a lot an'-"

"Oh, bugger off!" Ireland laughed, though averting his gaze as he got a little red, hardly visible through the light of the flames. "There's nothin' wrong with religion. Well, anyway, that's where I learned my basics. They tried to teach me Latin, but I couldn't care less, and eventually was the only one not to speak even a single word of it. Then they tried to convince me that God would punish me once I would die for not doing my work there properly, but... well, I'm still alive, so there's no telling if they were ever right." At this point, Northern Ireland gave up. He wouldn't be able to convince them he didn't need school, that they had been perfect teachers for over two decades and he could do it all without some human teachers bossing him around. And so he just continued going to school without complaining anymore.

Eventually, when the fire was nearly out and the brothers were ready to just curl up in their tents and be done for the day, Ireland looked at Wales with a nervous grin. "So, er, Dylan," he began slowly. "I'm just curious. How were ye plannin' to get _down_ the hill again tomorrow?" It was silent for a moment, but then Wales just shrugged. "I don't know... I think I'll just roll down the hill and we'll meet each other again at the bottom."

"Roll?" England echoed, staring at his older brother with a doubtful glance. "In your wheelchair, I hope?" But Wales shook his head, immediately protesting. "Oh, hell, no! I already said, the moment I could walk again, I'm never getting in it again! Why did you even bring it?" Scotland laughed, and Northern Ireland couldn't really figure out what kind of laugh it was, except that it wasn't one of joy or amusement. "Well, laddie... limping for a few meters at a time with not one, but _two_ canes isn't exactly, er, 'walking' in my book."

"Well then," Wales declared, huffing in mock-anger. "I'll go down the same way I came up here: little bits at a time, annoying the crap out of you all, and at that steep bit... piggyback ride from my dear big brother. And with that, I mean you, Allistair. You're the one who insisted we go hiking instead of going somewhere a little more accesible for me."

"Oh joy, I'm lookin' forward to it already," Scotland said dryly, getting to his feet then, telling his brothers that he was off to bed now, but before he could leave, England stopped him. There was no trace of the joy and laughter of that day left in his emerald eyes as he, too, got up and went to stand in front of Scotland. "A-Allistair, I... I actually didn't want to show you this today... I don't want to ruin this day for you, but I... I just thought you..." He trailed off, sighing and fumbling in one of his pockets, taking out a small, folded piece of paper. He hesitated for a moment, then handed it to his brother. "I-it's one of the laws of the Allied Control Council, which will come into effect early next year... L-law 46..." Scotland read it silently, his eyes growing wide as he did. After mere seconds, pure rage burned in his pale blue irisses, and the red glow from the flames only seemed to amplify the look of anger. His lips moved, speaking the words on paper with a soundless voice, and North could only just make out the words 'ceased to exist'. Then, wordlessly, he crumpled the note and threw it in the fire, walking away without even looking at any of his brothers.

Northern Ireland didn't know what was on the paper, and since it upset Scotland like this, he didn't want to know. He silently watched as his big brother walked away, not even going into one of the three tents but just out into the forest, depsite the cold winter air of January. He then looked at his other brothers, and saw the same emotion he felt in their eyes. He knew they didn't need one, but to North, this was the first reminder that true peace and happiness just never lasted.

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><p><strong>Well, except for the Allied Control Council laws in 1947, which will be the next chapter, this concludes the war in this fic. Next up is the build-up to the Troubles.<strong>

**Thanks you so so much for reading and (*puppy-dog eyes*) please leave a review?**


	11. Chapter 11

**Ah, this was a sad chapter to write... Especially since this day was exactly 68 years (and three days) ago from now...**

**Kawaz and Crossfire, thanks so much for the reviews! and Crossfire, also a thank you for being nitpicky on my German: I corrected it just now. If I made any mistakes here too, please tell me! And darn, German grammar is so hard indeed! My listening and reading comprehension of the language is above average in my year, but grammar keeps on knocking my grades down again -_-'**

**Well, anyway, fans of the German bros might indeed want to get their tissues ready.**

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><p>The day Scotland had loathed for so long finally came on February 25, 1947. Two days prior, the United Kingdom had traveled to Germany for a meeting of the Allied Control Council and the passing of several laws created by it. England and Wales nearly had to drag him into the plane, while Scotland protested loudly against it, stating he would have no part in this cruelty. Only when they had threatened to inform the prime minister (with whom Scotland couldn't exactly get along) did he get into the plane, however unwilling.<p>

"I'm not signing that devil's law," he muttered now, as Russia stepped forward and signed it, followed by the Marshal of the Soviet Union, Sokolovsky. Then came America, and his representator, Clay. France and his representator were third to sign it, and then it was the UK's turn. England sighed and, though also not too enthusiatically, signed it. "You won't have to, Allistair. My signature and that of mr Robertson should suffice." When he walked back to his older brother, he tried again to tell him he wasn't happy about it, either, but Scotland looked away and wouldn't listen.

Minutes after the signing of the law, they moved to the main hall of the Allied Control Council, where the law would be declared official soon. The Allies, nation and human, took place in their chairs, waiting for the German brothers to be brought in as well. Upon sitting down, Wales let out a relieved sigh and whispered to his brothers, "I'm telling you, one more minute up on my feet and my knees would've given up. I don't mind being here, but... if only they worked a little faster sometimes."

"Shut up!" Scotland hissed back under his breath. "So you want this to be done _sooner?_ Oh, yeah, the sooner we're rid of this 'pest', the better, isn't it?!" Wales flinched, protesting in a whisper, "Al, that's not what I-! Never mind. I understand you're angry, Al, but we had _nothing _to do with this. We're all on the same side here." But England sighed then, placing a hand on Wales' shoulder and saying softly, "Just let him be for now. In his position, I would be angry, too. And it _was_ a bit of a poor choice of words there, brother." Wales remained silent, as right then, the door opened and Germany and Prussia were brought in. England scowled when he noticed their hands were cuffed behind their backs, but he quickly grabbed Scotland by the wrist and stopped him from getting up in sheer anger.

Then, America got up and started speaking. "Germany and Free State Prussia, you were brought here today to witness the passing of Law No. 46 of the Allied Control Council and to further discuss the military occupation of the German Reich hereafter." Germany looked a little nervous as the older nation spoke, and Prussia looked at him, whispering something to his little brother, no doubt words of reassurance. America paid this no mind and continued speaking, as was his duty today. "To begin with the law, signed by Marie-Pierre Koenig, Général d'Armée of France and his nation, Vasily Sokolovsky, Marshal of the Soviet Union and his nation, Lucius D. Clay for Joseph T. McNarney, General of the US army and his nation, and B. H. Robertson for Sholto Douglas, Marshal of the Royal Air Force and his nations.  
>The Allied Control Council hereby declares that from this day, Februari 25 1947, onward, the Prussian State which from early days has been a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany has de facto ceased to exist."<p>

His words dropped like a bomb in the massive room, and a heavy silence followed. Scotland forced himself to look at Prussia -_former_ Prussia- now, and regretted his decision the moment he made it. His albino friend looked as if he could crumble any moment, his eyes wide as he looked up at America, his expression unreadible. America spoke further, reciting the words of the official document, but his words were hardly heard by Scotland, and the Scot guessed Prussia wasn't listening anymore, either. "Guided by the interests of preservation of peace and security of peoples and..."

Barely two minutes passed before the American was done speaking, but it had felt like a small eternity. When America stepped back, Germany said softly, his voice echoing through the room, "I-I'm sorry, but I... I'm afraid I don't quite understand... Prussia is-"

"It means, young man," Sokolovsky said, looking down at Germany with expressionless eyes, "that mr Beilschmidt is no longer a nation. He is to not be refered to as Prussia anymore by you, or anyone. As the young nation here just said, Free State Prussia has ceased to exist."

Germany immediately looked at his older brother beside him, almost as if to make sure he was still there and hadn't faded into nothingness where he stood, but the former nation was still there, motionless and silent. "_Nein!_" the young nation exclaimed, trying to get to his brother but being held back by two humans. "_N-nein, das-das konnt ihr nicht... DAS KÖNNT IHR NICHT MACHEN! Bruder-! Gilbert!"_ When he heard his little brother calling out to him like that, the albino seemed to be shaken out of his trance, and he quickly turned to Germany, grinning at him. "It's okay, Ludwig," he said, his voice wavering and his lips trembling as he forced himself te keep grinning, stating the complete opposite of his words. "It's okay. Your _Bruder _is too awezome to... to disappear... you know zhat...! It vill be okay... completely fine..."

"Zhis isn't zhe time for your stupid jokes, Gilbert!" Germany yelled at him, distraught. "Stop it vith your 'awezome' for once! Zhey just-! _Zhey just abolished you!_" Gilbert nodded slowly, answering in a whisper, "I know... I know... it vill be alright... I know it vill...", then averting his gaze and looking down at the floor instead. He knew it just fine, but he didn' _feel _it yet. He still existed, right? He was alive, he was breathing, his heart was pounding painfully against his ribs -_he was alive_. So how could he be dead at the same time? Nonexistent, just a memory at this point in time. It was simply impossible. And Scotland felt exactly the same way, and knew the others did, too. Scotland, at least, had come here expecting to see his friend die today, yet here he still was. Something must've gone wrong. Prussia wasn't abolished, he was standing there, right in front of him. Something must've gone horribly, wonderfully wrong.

England then got up, quickly saying, "However, Gilbert Beilschmidt will not disappear, as he just said. Though no longer as Prussia, you will be allowed to live on as a nation for some time at least -as East Germany. The current Germany will represent West Germany from now on, and you will both be under military occupation of the Allied Forces for indefinite time." When England finished speaking what was meant to be words of comfort, the truth finally seemed to dawn on the former Prussia, and he exclaimed suddenly, "F-for my _militarism?!_ Vhat a stupid reason to just _abolish me!_ If it vas truly for the vars I fought zhat I am no longer allowed to exist, zhen _all of you_ should be abolished, too!" France sighed, answering, "It is not like zhat, _mon ami_. We all 'ave fought wars, I will not deny zhat. But you are still different from all of us in one respect: you're an army with a nation, instead of a nation with an army. You were born for war, and we cannot allow zhat any longer." Germany took a startled step back as his older brother yelled at the other nations again, enraged and scared to death at the same time. "Y-you can't just do zhis! I-I'm _Prussia,_ and nothing else! I-in my 758 years of life, z-zhe only ozher identity I've ever had vas zhe Order of Teutonic Knights. I'm German, but I'm not _Germany_! And I am definitely not _East Germany!_ V-vhat is zhis... zhis sick joke!"

"It's not a joke, Gilbert," Scotland said softly, suprising his brothers and the two German nations with it. "I wish it was, but it isn't. You're now East Germany, under military occupation of the Soviet Union. I'm sorry, Gilbert, but that's how it is."

"Speaking of which," Russia said, getting to his feet slowly. "I believe it is time we all have a word with our new terri- _temporary _territories, _nyet?_ East, you're coming with me. West can tag along with the UK, USA and France." He approached the newly named East Germany with a tiny smirk, but the albino wouldn't even let him come close. The moment Russia was within reach, he gave him a full-force roundhouse kick to the stomach -or meant to. Russia stepped aside swiftly, caught the albino's raised leg and lifted him off the floor as though he weighed less than even a feather. He then smashed the man against the floor, dropping him like a ragdoll, and East Germany landed headfirst onto the marble, the impact knocking the breath out of his lungs. As he lay gasping for breath, Russia knelt down beside him and hauled him up by the collar of his shirt. "Now, now, I knew I would have to teach you some manners," he spoke to him, hatred dripping from his voice. "But I never once thought your case would be this bad. No matter, I'm an expert at teaching people like you some _discipline._" He got up and pulled the albino, who was still gasping for breath (England almost feared he had a collapsed lung from the impact with the floor), to his feet as well and dragged him along into one of the smaller offices down the hall. West Germany stared after them with wide blue eyes and a confused expression: he clearly didn't comprehend all that had happened in the past few minutes. And who could blame him? He was then taken by the other Allies to an office room next to the one Russia and his brother were in.

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><p>They were done explaining things quickly, as the young German never interrupted them and asked not even one question. He just sat there, silently staring at the wall and only nodding from time to time. The other nations even wondered if he was listening to them or not, but it didn't really matter. All that he had missed now, they could tell him again. Eventually, Wales sighed, mumbling, "Prussia isn't even a thousand years old? I thought he was almost our age," he added as he looked at England, who nodded, agreeing. That was the first moment West Germany spoke since they came into this room, his voice soft and hoarse. "He is often zhought to be older by ozher nations because of his military skills. But he vas like zhat from the moment he was born. France vas right: he vas born from an army... the Teutonic Knights in the 12th century." After that, he was silent again, his eyes expressionless as he stared at the floor. France was about to say something, but he was cut off before he could speak more than one syllable.<p>

Because suddenly, an agonised screech echoed through the building, and all the nations were alert in a heartbeat, staring at the door and wondering what had happened. Especially West Germany looked terrified and shocked, and he jumped to his feet, trying to run to the door but being held back by America and France. "Z-zhat vas Gilbert!" he yelled at them, trying desperately to free himself. "_Das war meinem Bruder!_" France and America, who had apparently stopped West Germany instinctively, let go of him again and ran out the door, followed closely by the other nations. Wales, who had been a bit slower to get to his feet, followed slower as well: he'd been standing and walking around too much that day already, as he couldn't walk for longer than ten minutes yet. England helped him, and for that, they were the last people to walk into the office next to the one they'd been in, stumbling upon a surprisingly gruesome, nerve-wrecking scene.

The fireplace in that office was filled with flames, the only source of light in the room, the red and orange shimmer giving an eerie effect to what they saw: Russia was towering over East Germany, who sat curled up on the floor, his shirt open and his arms pressed to his chest. His breathing came in shallow, rasping gasps, squeaking a bit in sheer pain. He sat with his back turned to the other nations, but even so, they knew what had happened. In Russia's left hand was a metal object, the end of it glowing white and red, just out of the fire. Apparently, he had _branded _East Germany. The nations that had run into the room just now were frozen in shock for a moment as the wounded albino tried to say something, and Russia only yelled at him in Russian, then kicked him in the head. The albino was swung headfirst against the wall, lying unconsciously on the floor after that. Whether the kick or the impact with the wall had caused him to lose consciousness, no one knew, but it was the one thing needed to get everyone out of their petrified state.

_"You sick bastard!" _Scotland roared, practically jumping Russia. The younger nation tried to defend himself, but in his rage, the Scot was too quick, knocking Russia to the floor and punching him in the face two, three times before America managed to pull him off the other nation again. But the American, too, was enraged, and demanded loudly, "Why the _fucking hell_ would you do that, Ivan?!"

Russia just smirked and shrugged. "He didn't accept the fact that he's under my authority now," he said. "Didn't want to accept that his little capital -or what's left of it anyway- is now _my_ city. I just gave him a permanent reminder that his heart, for as long as it still beats, belongs to the USSR and that he should listen to me from now on. His freedom is gone forever." America and Scotland looked at the part Russia had used to brand East Germany with, the shape of it now visible as it was cooling down -the symbol of the Soviet Union. "That's _sick_," America muttered as he let go of Scotland again. "Absolutely _sick._" They then turned to look at the two Germanies, the younger of which was on his knees beside his unconscious older brother, trying to wake him up.

"G-Gilbert, c-come one... v-vake up...!" he tried desperately, but with his hands still tied behind his back, his efforts were fruitless. France was beside him as well, inspecting East Germany closely for a moment then sighing. "'E needs 'elp," he said softly. "If not for zhe burn, zhen for 'is 'ead, but 'e needs 'elp." Scotland scowled, getting up and pushing France aside, muttering to him, "Then for Heaven's sake, stop just sayin' so an' _actually do some'in!_" He then picked up East Germany and, with him limp in his arms, walked out of the room without looking back or saying even a single word more. Northern Ireland, who was trembling in fear at what he'd just seen, squeaked that he would help, too, and quickly ran after him.

"Allistair!" the child asked, terrified, as he caught up to his brother, who was walking through the hallway with quick paces -on his short legs, North had to run to keep up with him. "Allistair, will he... will he be okay?" But Scotland didn't answer, and so the child tried something else. "Why did Russia do that?" Still no answer, and Scotland just went into a room North had seen only once before, when he'd cut himself accidentally when in here and the small cut got disinfected. This was where, in case of an emergency, the humans had stored medical alcohol, bandages and all such things. And this was an emergency if North had ever seen one. Because when he looked to his side at the unconscious albino in his brother's arms, he saw some strands of his white hair were sticky and crimson by now, blood trickling down the side of his face. Scotland just lay the former Prussian down on the table in the middle of the room, quickly asking for North to close the door behind him as he was rummaging through a drawer to find the supplies he needed. Northern Ireland silently followed his instructions, then asked if there was any way he could help. So quickly North could hardly comprehend it, the Scot answered, "You could take off his shirt: I also want to have a look at his shoulders and back after what happened in the main hall earlier today. Northern Ireland just nodded and got to work.

The fresh burn Russia had just given the albino was a dark red and even brownish, the skin having the gruesome appearance of partially melted flesh, and North felt sick to the stomach just looking at it. But it wasn't the only burn or scar on the nation's body: several old battlescars were on his chest and abdomen, old burns along his side and left shoulder. The pale skin, which looked so _flawless _on every piece of it that was usually visible -hands, neck, face- was marred with proof of his many years of battle. "Allistair..." North whispered, the only thing he could think of now. "Al..." Scotland then turned to the two younger nations, disinfectant in one hand and bandages in the other. "I couldn't find anything to stitch him up if necessary," he said. "So let's hope that cut in his head isn't too -shit." He stopped when he, too, saw the many scars on his friend's body, but quickly shook his head and sat down, searching for the cut on the nation's head. "Coineach, laddie, would ye please press some wet cloth to that burn? Don't make it too cold... Yeah, like that, good job..."

As his brother was working on cleaning then closing the cut on East Germany's head, North quietly inspected said nation a bit. He was unlike anything he'd ever seen, quite unlike what he'd expected when Scotland had described him once. He'd seen him once before, but that had only been a glimpse, back when they reunited him with his little brother. He was even paler by nature than he thought, and he'd never seen someone this young with white hair. Scotland also told him he, like most albinoes, had red eyes, but Northern Ireland had never seen them up close yet, so he wasn't sure. All in all, he had an almost ghostly appearance, something that got North nervous and fidgety just by looking at it. He didn't want to be scared of him, but after a few minutes, he just had to admit to himself that he was, for no reason at all.

He nearly jumped in shock when East Germany groaned a bit and blinked open his eyes (and when he saw they were indeed crimson red, North gulped and took a step back), looking up at Scotland. "_S-Schottland..._" he rasped softly, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly before speaking again. "Al... vhat-? Vhat's going on...?" He then seemed to remember, because he was up in a sitting position within a heartbeat, his eyes wide. "_Oh Gott, Ludwig-!_ I-is Ludwig alr- _agh!_" He flinched then and pressed one hand to his head, and Scotland took the oppertunity to give his shoulder a quick glance -only some bruises, so that was okay. "Ludwig is fine," he then said to his friend, trying to calm him down and get him to lie down again. "He's only worried about ye. An' to be frank, so am I. Take it easy fer now, aye? That bastard hit ye good..." East Germany nodded slowly, closing his eyes again. "He has reason to hate me," he sighed eventually. "I don't really blame him for zhat... But zhis vent too far, r-right? Z-zhis isn't a common punishment for var, is it...?" Scotland only shook his head.

"Are ye okay, Gilbert?" he asked after a short silence, and the albino nation laughed dryly. "Ah, I'm used to vorse. Given some time, I'll be just fine again!"

"I didn't mean _this_, I meant... _are ye okay?_"

East Germany remained silent for a little while after this, opening his eyes again and looking up at his Scottish friend. Then, slowly, he shook his head, his lips forming the word 'no' but his voice not joining in the effort. He gritted his teeth, his voice barely above a whisper as he ranted, "Z-zhey took my identity, my entire life, vith mere vords! I-I _felt _it, Al, I felt how zhey... how zhey ended my existence as Prussia... It felt so empty, a-as if zhe whole vorld vas gone in a second! As if _I _vas gone..." He breathed in sharply when a jolt of pain seemed to pass through his body, so strongly North could almost _see_ it go, then went on, "A-and now zhey zhink it vill be okay if zhey let me live on as a shitty country vith a shitty name like _East Germany_ and a shitty position as Russia's goddamn lackey! Vell, _fuck zhem!_ Zhey _killed me_ today, Allistair, zhey _killed me_ and I'm _dead._ A ghost... a mere ghost of vhat I used to be..." It was silent after that, the silence growing heavier with the minute. For a moment, Northern Ireland wondered if East Germany had passed out or ust fallen asleep again, but then the albino spoke one last time, "If for vhatever reason, Allistair, I'm not able to look after Ludwig vhen he needs me," he rasped weakly, clearly just seconds away from drifting off again. "Please take my place as his big _Bruder_ for me... He's so young... he can't live completely alone yet. I don't vant him to be alone. Loneliness... it hurts... Please, spare him zhat pain if you can, and I can't..."

"I promise, Gilbert_,_" Scotland answered softly, calm but his voice full of emotion. "My own wee brother here is the witness to this... I swear on my life, Gilbert, if Ludwig ever needs ye and ye can't be there for him anymore, I'll treat him like my own lil' brother an' take care o'him to the best of my abilities. I promise." East Germany smiled, thanked him softly, then fell asleep, unconscious again. Northern Ireland stared at him for a little while, then at Scotland. What did the two older nations know that he didn't? Why had Scotland spoken as if his friend would die soon? A nation... a nation couldn't die. They were immortal, and Prussia -though now as East Germany- was still a nation. Suddenly, the child was picked up by his older brother, who held him like he was still a small kid, but for once, North didn't mind. "C'mon, laddie," Scotland whispered to him. "Let's get out o'here, let the man sleep... he's had the toughest day of his life just now, I think..." And as he was carried out of the room by his big brother, Northern Ireland finally understood why Scotland had hated this day so much -it was by far the most unfair thing he'd ever witnessed. "I'll call him Prussia," he mumbled against his brother's shoulder, getting sleepy. He wasn't sure, but it must have been near midnight at that point. "I'll still call him Prussia forever..." But Scotland shook his head and answered softly that he couldn't: Prussia was gone forever.

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><p><strong>Ah, I'm so sorry. I just hate Prussia's dissolution, but angst is easy to write for me (hence the fact this chapter was done so quickly)... for whatever reason.<strong>

**So from now on, Germany will be called West (Germany) and Prussia East (Germany). I didn't do so in this chapter yet, but I'm pretty sure I will use the short versions of their new names, like I did with North's. (See? Doing it again... *sigh*)**

**Well, I hope the next chapter will be done quickly, too, but school is starting again in two days (*crying a river*), so I'm not sure. Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**First of all, I might not be able to write this weekend, and I hardly write during the week (blame school) so the next chapter might take a little while longer than usual. And then some random information: the reason I won't be able to write this weekend is because, on Saturday, I'll be going to my first open day of a university _ever_. I'm excited but terrified. Hell, I don't want to grow up. I don't want responsibilities like that yet, I don't... I just can't. I really can't.**

**So I'm panicking a little here. Or more than a little, whatever.**

**Crossfire, as usual, thank you so, so much for that review. You really know how to make a writer happy. And Kawaz! Thanks for the favourites!**

**Now, in this chapter I tried to mix everything a bit: angst with fluff with humour... though the latter not so much as the others. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it.**

**Hetalia is not mine.**

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><p>The moment they were out of Germany, or actually even when they were still in a their plane back home, Northern Ireland had declared he wanted to go to Ireland again. Not long, just a week or so, but he really wanted to be there now, for reasons he didn't understand. But after everything that had happened and everything he'd seen, Ireland felt like a safe, peaceful place now.<p>

So early in the afternoon two days after they got back, Wales dropped him off there before going back to Cardiff, only staying for roughly five minutes before he left again. Northern Ireland just sat on the couch, tense and silent, and Ireland went to sit beside him after saying goodbye to his little brother. "So is there any special reason ye wanted t'come here, Coineach?" he asked softly, but North remained silent. He folded his hands into fists, though, raising his shoulders a little. After a minute of silence like this, when Ireland simply put an arm around the kid's shoulder, he just started crying. "W-what they did was so cruel!" he sobbed against his brother's shoulder. "So unfair!" Ireland didn't say anything, just held him, and then North knew why he had wanted to come here: his oldest brother always knew how to comfort him, despite their fallouts. "I hate them for what they did, I really do!" North muttered eventually between the sobs. "America, France and Russia... they're cruel and mean!"

"They're not," Ireland answered softly, stroking his little brother's head. "Really, dear, they're not. America is young an' fairly unexperienced, he wouldn't know what dissolution does to a nation. France is one o'Pruss- East Germany's best friends, I'm sure 't hurt to have to do this. Russia... Russia is also young, an' mostly misguided by his leaders. He's gone through two horrible revolutions in one year time during WWI, then a complete reform to communism, then he made a pact with Germany to not have to participate in WWII -only to be betrayed by them an' invaded, anyway. I dun'think he's even able to think clearly with everything that happened and is still happening in his country. What he did, for all I heard, was wrong... but not too surprising." North sniffled a bit, trying to silence himself, but huffed when Ireland said this. Why couldn't people just go along with his opinions on others, even if just for a moment? Why couldn't anyone share his hatred, if only for a few seconds? But he knew that would be wrong: Ireland was right, after all, there was no reason to hate any of them. "But I still don't like them for what they did," he mumbled then, biting his lip to stop himself from crying.

"And why is that?"

"They seperated East and West! W-West is young, he deserves -he_ needs_ to have his big brother with him now! I-I know I w-would... But they se-seperated them a-and that's unfair! And A-Al told me that, i-if Germany ever gets reunified, the ch-chance East will die i-is... almost c-certain. So then, when West finally has his b-big brother again, he will lose him again, too! That's so cruel..." Ireland only nodded and didn't answer to this, as North was going on already. "Don't they know what having big brothers is like? Everyone deserves to have one, and taking one away from someone is so _wrong_."

"France doesn't," Ireland answered softly. "_He _is the 'big brother of Europe', according to himself." He laughed softly, then added, "Though, age-wise, that would be yers truly here. Anyway, America had all of us, though he viewed us more as uncles an' Artie as his father. Russia has his older sister, Ukraine. However, they all know what it's like, an' I think they feel bad for West and East, too. They're not monsters, Coineach, just remember that." Northern Ireland was silent after that. He never said they were monsters! Or had he? Is that what it had sounded like? He just leaned against Ireland for a moment, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time, then let go of his older brother again and looked up at him, sniffling from time to time. But when he saw the warm smile Ireland looked at him with, he tilted his head and asked if something was wrong, because that look, for all it's warmth, was getting a little unnerving. Ireland only laughed and looked away. "N-no, of course not... sorry. It's just... yer such an amazing kid, ye know that?"

North blinked at him, surprised and confused. "W-why...?"

"Because of how much ye care 'bout others," was all Ireland said, until he saw North's pale green eyes, still filled with confusement, if not more. Then he smiled again and explained, "This -what happened to West and East- has nothing to do with ye, kid, an' yet here y'are, worryin' about them like they were yer family... yer brothers or cousins..." He sighed then, looking away, out the window. "Many children yer age are selfish -they don't know that they are, but their world still revolves around only them, an' with a bit o'luck, their parents an' siblings. But ye, Coineach, ye care about the world. That's what makes ye so amazing. An' I'm proud of ye, lad."

Northern Ireland only mumbled a quick, soft "Thanks", then sat silently, staring at the floor. After two minutes passed like that, Ireland got up, saying he would pour the two of them some tea or coffee, but North quickly grabbed him by the wrist and stopped him. "Wait, Cearul-!" He didn't know exactly why he stopped his brother, but he wanted him to stay here now. Ireland only blinked at him, waiting for what else North had to say, and the child quickly made up something -he didn't want to seem weak, and he'd just been crying for minutes on end, after all. "Y-you never really told me... what was mom like?" The older Irishman stared down at his little brother for a while, then stuttered, "M-my mother...? Well, the way I knew her, she was kind and warm and caring... but she was different to everyone. Each person has their own perception and their own opinions, after all." He sat down again, his eyes wide and his expression blank. Of all things North could have asked, this was the last thing he'd expected, and he hadn't been prepared for it one bit. "The years I was alone with her are a bit of a blur to me. That was over two thousand years ago, after all, and I was maybe four or five when Allistair was born. But she would always take me with her, even when she went hunting. I didn't have a father t'look after us, an' no one else to look after me when she was gone huntin', so she had no choice, really. An' at night, she would sing me a lullaby to get me to sleep -became a family thing, as ye've noticed." North nodded: he remembered all four of his brothers singing him to sleep when he was a baby or a young toddler. Sometimes they still did, but North didn't really want them to anymore, as it was something for little kids.

"Then when she got pregnant with Al," Ireland went on, "things were a bit harder. I was too young to go out looking for food on my own, an' though she managed in the first months, when Al got a lil' too heavy to carry around for miles... We ended up havin' a bit of a food problem then. But even when she got to the point she could give birth any moment, she'd always make sure I ate first -if at all. I didn't know that was unhealthy for her yet, otherwise I'd have never let her, but..." He smiled again, warmly, but another kind of warmth than when he'd smiled at North earlier -the nostalgic kind he always had when talking about his youth or that of any his younger brothers except North. "She always put her children first, no matter what. I don't know how people outside the family thought of her other than positive, but as her son, she was the most amazing person in the world to me."

"I wish I could've met her," North sighed, leaning sidewards against Ireland's shoulder and closing his eyes. "She sounds like a great mom..."

"Maybe one day ye will," Ireland answered softly, his voice sounding far away to Northern Ireland. "Maybe one day, in yer dreams... I still see her sometimes, feel her near me, an' I know the others do, too. Even Artie, even though he's never met her in life, like ye." North nodded slowly, relaxing completely. Now this was what he'd missed -lying against his oldest brother, practically falling asleep there. Back when he was still only a year or two old, Ireland had been the one he loved to be with most. He was most comfortable falling asleep in his arms and hearing his voice when he was scared. All that, he guessed, was because Ireland had been the one to find him minutes after he was born, raising him in his first months. And no matter what happened between the two of them, he knew he could always come back here and restore his relationship with his brother and continue like they always did. And he loved that. He loved that so much...

Ireland waited until North fell asleep against his shoulder out of sheer exhaustion, then gently picked him up and brought him to his bedroom. There, he softly put the child in bed, puling the covers over his small body, then knelt down beside him, looking at him for a moment. His expression was one of complete comfort and happiness, if not for the tearstains still visible on his cheeks. The Irishman sighed, stroking the child through his soft, dark ginger hair again. "Yer like mum, y'know," he whispered to him. "Caring more for others than yerself. A much better person than I am... I'm selfish." He stopped stroking him now, holding his hand still on the sleeping boy's cheek. "I'm selfish," he repeated, "'cause ye have no idea how much I wish ye just lived here with me... How much I want to tell ye that yer not my lil' brother at all, truth or not... How much I want to tell ye everythin' I've kept secret for so long, finally be rid o'this constant pain in my heart, even if it means tearing apart yer entire world. I won't, I promise I won't, but I _wish_-" He stopped for a moment, taking in a shaky breath before going on, his voice hardly audible. "I wish I could have kept ye safe, lad. That I could've prevented ye from experiencing all the horrors ye've seen, that I could have been yer safe haven... where ye truly felt safe and happy, instead of the years ye spent here during the war... I wish ye could remain innocent for so much longer." Tears were pricking in the corners of his eyes by now, and he blinked them away. He wouldn't cry, not in front of Northern Ireland, even if the boy was asleep. "I had hoped letting ye grow up as our brother would make ye happy," he then whispered, sighing again. "But now, I wonder if things would've been different -_better_- for ye if I'd chosen to be yer father from day one instead. But wouldn't that be what's best for _me_, and not ye? I'm selfish like that... I'm sorry, lad. Ye deserve better than this... better than me." He then got up and walked out of the room again, as silently as he could. The most pathetic part of it all, he thought, was how he wasn't even sure what North was to him: he had nothing to prove he was the boy's father, but nothing to disprove it, either. It was a mystery he had yet to solve, and sometimes he wondered if he ever would. His heart kept on telling him the boy was his, but his mind... His mind would tell him there was no way of knowing, and then he would only think about how unbelievable it was. A parent that didn't know if a child was his or not? And so, his mind said he _couldn't_ be North's father: he would know if he was, instead of living in constant uncertainty. At least, he told himself, Northern Ireland's world was clear as day: he had four older brothers, and that was all he knew and all he had to know. And that at least was a good, a wonderful thing. Even though it might well be a lie.

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><p>England was busy. He had no other word for it: he was just incredibly, infuriatingly busy. He still had to work on restoring several things in his own country and the rest of the UK, the Allied Control Council just kept on creating new laws and taking new measures to ensure peace, and not even two years ago, the United Nations had been created, hoping for better international co-operation. And aside from that, he was now in control of a not too small piece of West Germany. And as if all that wasn't enough to worry about: decolonisation came. The Empire was falling apart, and though the effects of it weren't too strong yet as it was only starting, they were there.<p>

Not only was he busy, his health was... nonexistent. Britain was, essentially, bankrupt, 'kept alive' only by the massive loan from the US, which of course they would have to pay off one day. Really, it wasn't that much worse than after WWI, but this time, there was just so much more work to do. And not to mention the fact Great Britain had hardly been damaged in the first war, but in the latest one, London had been bombed along with other major cities. He was still recovering from all that, and now... Now he had to work day and night, sometimes staying up all night without even noticing the sun rising after several hours. There was so much to be done, too much, and his government just kept drowning him in paperwork and meetings everytime he thought he was nearly done. He was beginning to think that, to him personally, the UN was a death sentence: no matter how miserable his state, he had to travel through Europe, go to a meeting in Germany, then a meeting in France... At one point he'd been told to go to one of his colonies, India, and he'd simply refused to. International co-operation might be the saviour of the world, the one thing to prevent another massacre like the World Wars, but if he didn't get some time off soon, it would be the death of him.

It was the third evening that week that he was working late -the third evening after he'd come home from Germany, also- and there was simply a _mountain_ of documents of several things in front of him. He was reading through a report on something he didn't even understand anymore, shaking from head to toes with a raging fever and coughing up his lungs every few minutes, hadn't even eaten yet and felt plain _miserable._ He had a meeting in two days and he knew that if he didn't rest tomorrow, he wouldn't even make it. So he _had _to keep working now so he could take it easy the next day -relatively easy, at least. But as the words kept dancing over the paper, the only thing he could think about was how, miraculously, his head hadn't exploded yet. It certainly felt like it would. "Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, on the verge of tears in sheer pain, exhaustion, discomfort and desperation. "Bloody fucking hell... I'll never get this done..." But he had to, he kept telling himself. He had to, or he wouldn't make it to the meeting...

Right then, the phone rang, and with a sigh he picked it up, expecting more work to be thrown his way, or the meeting being tomorrow already instead of in two days. He muttered a greeting, trying to sound normal, but his frustration was clearly audible. "_Ah, Angleterre, c'est moi_," came the familiar voice of France, annoying England to no end. What was the git calling for now? That he had to be in France in a few days? Some stupid UN meeting he hadn't known about? But no, none of that. "I just zhought I'd check up on you, _mon cher,_" the Frenchman continued, with that godawful accent of his which England just really couldn't stand right now. "A few days ago in Germany, you didn't look so well... so 'ow are you?"

England sighed. Idle chit-chat. Another thing he just couldn't stand now. In fact, he thought, pretty much anything was unbearable at the moment. "Very busy," he answered. "And tired. And with a government that seems to want me dead, because frankly, I'm sick, and not just a little and yet they still treat me like I'm a machine. So please, would you go bother somebody else?"

There was a disapproving grunt on the other side of the line, and England cringed: to his aching head, it had sounded like a roaring lion, or something equally loud. "Arthur, just take a break, _oui?_ If you really are sick -and I can 'ear you are from your voice- you should get some rest. Zhe government will understand, will zhey not? Take care of yourself."

"France-" England tried to interrupt him, but the older nation just went on without a pause. His voice was ringing in the Englishman's ears, growing louder and louder even though he was speaking at the same volume all the time. And it just _hurt so bad._

"Are you even sharing zhe work? _Tes freres_ are capable of working, too, you know. Don't do everything by yourself. In fact, if zhey are 'ealthier zhan you right now, just give zhe work to your brothers and take some time off! You really 'ave to-"

"I can't share the work with them now!" England interrupted him again, this time raising his own voice so he wouldn't be ignored. "Dylan is still busy with revalidation and all that, and Allistair-... He's still... I don't want to give him too much work yet, after what happened on the 25th." At that moment, his stomach twisted painfully and he wouldn't have been surprised if his head finally exploded, and he leaned on his desk with his forehead. Wood shouldn't be that cold, he thought vaguely. His temperature must've risen again. That didn't really surprise him, either, but he was really at his breaking point now. "Oh _fucking-_...! I'm dying, France! I'm bloody dying, I just know I am!" He curled up in his chair, somehow having the willpower to stay on the phone. Or perhaps, though he thought it very unlikely, he just liked being able to talk to someone right now, even if it_ was_ France.

"_Mon petit lapin_-"

"And don't you call me your 'little bunny', arse! It makes no fucking sense!"

"It doesn't 'ave to make sense, _mon petit lapin._ And I see you finally bought a dictionary, zhen?" was the only response he got, as if nothing was happening at all. Did he really not care at all about how horrible England felt? Not one tiny bit? Though of course, that wasn't surprising to England, not in the least. He had a history of brothers that didn't care about him -things within the British-Irish family were just about settling down again. Before the union in 1707, they never really seemed to care about their youngest brother, either. And France was just another one of them, though with another shared parent. And seeing as their father had been a selfish bastard and France had inherited quite a few of his genes...

"I really have to finish my work now, France," England sighed after a short silence, his voice quivering a bit as he began trembling again. His fever had _definitely_ gotten worse over the last few minutes. "So please stop bothering me... I have a meeting in two days, and I-"

"Call it off."

"W-what...?" England then stuttered, unsure if he had even heard that right. It had sounded a lot like France was trying to order him around right now, and-

"Call off zhe meeting. You're in no condition to work, and definitely not to go to any meeting. Your government will just 'ave to understand." France sounded bossy indeed, but also genuinely worried, and it... it really touched England. Stupid, childish, but it did. His throat suddenly felt tight, and as did his chest a second later. "B-but, France, there's still so much to do and... I..." At this point, he really didn't know what came over him, but barely a minute later, he found himself crying with his face still planted on his desk and the phone in his trembling right hand. "I-I really can't do all this, France, I just can't! B-being immortal doesn't make me superhuman, too, not like this! I'm n-not some sort of _machine_, yet they make me work like I a-am one! I feel _awful_, France, I -I just want to die at this point. I really can't take this!"

"Arthur," France eventually said, sounding so calm, it was almost reassuring. "Stop working right now, drink some tea, zhen go to bed. And don't you dare take some reports with you -zhat's not zhe 'ealthy version of 'late night reading material'. Just rest, get better, take some time for yourself. _Bon?_" England silenced himself again, keeping his lips pressed shut to stop himself from crying any more -it was becoming pathetic by now, the way he saw it. Then he just about managed to choke out a soft agreement, and France hummed approvingly. "Very good. _Bonne nuit, mon petit frere._" Then he ended the call, leaving England in shocked silence. He never knew France could be so... so caring. And especially the last part -England spoke enough French to know exactly what it meant- had come as a surprise to the younger nation. France had many nicknames for him, most of them mocking, some just meant to be cute -and thus still mocking-, but never before had he called England his little brother yet. And for the very first time since he'd met France hundreds of years ago, the French nation had acted like the older half-brother he was. And it... it felt surprisingly good.

* * *

><p>The day after that, Wales collapsed onto his knees, gasping for breath, and the human that had been guiding him knelt down beside him. "No running yet, I see?" she asked calmly, and Wales shook his head. "N-not this much yet, clearly... damn, this is... this is hard," he choked out his answer, sighing after that. Maybe he'd overdone it just now -he had barely ever actually collapsed like this during revalidation after the first three months. But really, it had been a year since he started working on this, he should have gotten farther by now. "You're doing great, you know," the woman beside him said, as if she had read his mind just now. "You've been paralysed for over twenty years, in a wheelchair for nearly twenty-five. Considering how weakened your legs were when we started, you're doing even better than any of us had expected. And don't forget your position as <em>nation<em> keeps you so busy you barely have time to practice here, under supervision. Don't expect too much of yourself. We're doing this one step at a time." Wales just nodded slowly. "Now, I think it's best if we go back, hm? No running anymore for you for today."

"If I can even get up at this point!" the nation laughed, though he felt closer to crying. How could he have expected that he would be walking again by now when he first regained sense in his legs? How could he have hoped he could be back on a horse by now? How could he have been so _foolishly optimistic?_ He struggled to get to his feet and struggled even harder to remain standing, and with help from the human, went back home again. There, he wasn't planning on doing anything more than lying down and read or something, but he didn't get the chance: a great amount of files and paperwork had been faxed his way, apparently, along with a note that said '_would you please take care of this here, I'll do the other part. Gotta have Artie take some time off, the poor bugger. You should see him. Or maybe you shouldn't. Take care, little brother. -Allistair'_

Wales sighed. Of course they couldn't let their little brother do all the work by himself, but he had completely forgotten about all that. On the 25th, he had wanted to tell England to share the workload with him, but due to everything that had happened, he didn't get the chance. And the day after that, he simply forgot to mention it. "No rest for me yet," he mumbled to himself, grabbing some reports to read through -still flopping down on the couch. That part was a necessity at this point.

* * *

><p>"Dylan got some o'the work now, too, Artie," Scotland said, turning back to England, who sat on the couch wit a steaming cup of tea in his hands. The younger nation was ghostly pale, and Scotland surpressed a sigh. "Ye shouldn't think I couldn't handle this work just because of what happened... <em>then<em>," he told him sternly. "I'm not a wee kid: I'm yer big brother, Artie. No matter what, I should be the one takin' care o'ye and not the other way 'round. Okay? I'm fine, yer not. It's that simple."

England nodded slowly, but remained silent for a little while, until the Scot sat down beside him for a moment. "Why did you come here, anyway?"

"France told me to," the older brother answered, which earned him a huff from England, and amused, he ruffled his little brother's hair a bit. "He told me 'bout yer phonecall yesterday, an' I left immediately. Told me to take responsibility like a brother should, go over to ye, make sure ye were okay an' do yer work for now. An' ye know, he was right. An' it's something good for me, too: if I had nothing to do, I'd only think too much 'bout Pr-Gilbert an' Ludwig. I'm just grateful for bein' able to help ye an' have something to take my mind of things." England nodded again, taking a sip of his tea, nearly burning his lips in the process and thus placing the cup on the coffeetable for the time being. It remained silent in the room for about two minutes, until Scotland spoke again.

"He also told me to call ye Bunny."

"Of course he did."

* * *

><p><strong>So, er... things are not going too well for the brothers. But what else could one expect?<strong>

**And yes: Ireland is still not convinced of either one of the possibilities regarding his relationship with Northern Ireland. Though, I'll admit, he leans more towards the 'father-son' one than the 'brothers'.**

**Anyways, thank you so much for reading, please leave a review, and I hope the next chapter won't take too long.**


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